I turned to my neighbour, Spoor, and carefully selecting a safe topic began on the weather. "Bit windy, isn't it, to-night?"
"Good anti-Zeppelin weather, I call it," said the incautious Spoor.
"A shilling, please, Spoor," remarked Crawshaw.
Rogers was across the table. I could see him fiddling with knives and salt-cellars. All at once he broke out: "In our platoon to-day there was a man missing, and in consequence a blank file. Now in such a case——"
"You pay a shilling," interposed Crawshaw.
For a moment an awful silence prevailed. I could think of nothing except the War. All at once Williams threw a five-shilling piece into the bowl.
"I met an officer on leave from the Front to-day," he began, "and he was telling me just what Joffre is up to."
Now Chapman is nothing if not a strategist. He listened with impatience to the exposition of Joffre's idea, and then, hurling half-a-sovereign into the bowl, proved conclusively that Williams' informant was absolutely in the wrong.
It was at this point that I remembered an interesting fact I had just heard about Italy's mobilisation. I could not keep it back. "Crawshaw," I appealed, "will you compromise? A sovereign each for the dinner?"
"Done," said Crawshaw.