"Let me explain," said the Venerable One. "There come moments in the life of every man when he says suddenly to himself, 'What am I doing? Is it worth it?'—a moment when the work of which he has for years been proud seems all at once to be of no value whatever." The subaltern murmured something. "No, not necessarily indigestion. There may be other causes. Well, such a moment has just come to me ... and I wondered." He hesitated, and then added wistfully, "Perhaps you could say something to help me."
"The pen," said the subaltern, coughing slightly, "is mightier than the sword."
"It is," said the Sage. "I've often said so ... in Peace time."
The subaltern blushed as he searched his mind for the Historic Example.
"Didn't Wolfe say that he would rather have written what's-its-name than taken Quebec?" he asked hesitatingly.
"Yes, he did. And for most of his life the poet would have agreed with him. But, if at the moment when he read of the taking of Quebec you had asked Gray, I think he would have changed places with Wolfe very willingly.... And in Bouverie Street," added Mr. Punch, "we read of the takings of Quebecs almost every day."
The subaltern was thoughtful for a moment.
"I'll tell you a true story," he said quietly. "There was a man in this trench who had his leg shot off. They couldn't get him away till night, and here he had to wait for the whole of the day.... He stuck it out.... And what do you think he stuck it out on?"
"Morphia?" suggested Mr. Punch.
"Partly on morphia, and partly on—something else."