“I only pray to heaven,” I said seriously, “that no slipshod fool of a doctor lets you through.”
“They won’t let me in, old chap; no such luck. It’s a ghastly outlook. What on earth am I to do with myself while the war lasts?”
“My dear chap,” I exclaimed, “it won’t be as bad as all that. There will be thousands of men who won’t go to the war. I shan’t be surprised if you see very little difference about town even when the war’s in full swing. You can’t go, although you want to, and it’s jolly bad luck, old man. Don’t think I don’t understand, but, believe me, you won’t be the only man left in London by a million or two.”
“I know,” he said penitently, “I’m grousing and worrying you. Sorry! But I can see you setting out for the Temple in the morning and leaving your house on fire. It wouldn’t make it easier simply because you knew you weren’t able to do anything to put out the fire. In fact, it would make it a jolly lot worse. Still, we’ll cut that and change the subject. When you get back from Invermalluch give me a look up. I expect I shall be here. And, of course, give my kindest regards to Miss McLeod—oh, and the General,” he added, as an afterthought.
“I will, indeed,” I promised readily, “and I’ll wire you the train I’m coming back by. I should like you to meet it, and we can spend the few remaining days I have together. If you don’t get past the doctor I should like you to keep your eye on one or two things for me while I’m away.”
“Of course, anything you like. The more the merrier,” he answered readily; and the poor fellow brightened visibly at the thought of being able to do something for a pal.
We taxied round the corner with my kit, and joined the others at the grill room. They were both in the highest of spirits, Jack, of course, in particular. He had been told that his intimate knowledge of motors and motor-cycles would be of great advantage to him, and he had been advised on all hands to join as a despatch-rider. In imagination he already saw himself up to the most weird pranks on his machine, many of which, much to the gratification of his friends, and just as much to his own astonishment, were proved later to have a solid foundation in fact. Over dinner we discussed the question of applying for commissions.
“Oh, dash it, no,” said Jack; “I’m going to Berlin on the old snorter.”
“Commissions are off—quite out of the question,” Tommy agreed with emphasis. “To begin with, it means waiting, which is absurd; and in the second place I object to any attempt to travel first-class. It’s silly and snobbish, to put the kindest construction on it. If I’ve got to join this excursion I’m willing to go where they like to put me, and if necessary I’ll hang on behind.”