He now sips his beer and delivers his
report.
"London is much as usual. A bit rattled over Zeppelins--they have
turned out even more street lamps--but nothing to signify. Country
districts crawling with troops. All the officers appear to be
colonels. Promotion at home is more rapid than out here. Chin, chin!"
Wagstaffe buries his face in his glass mug.
"What is the general attitude," asked Mr. Waddell, "towards the war?"
"Well, one's own friends are down in the dumps. Of course it's only
natural, because most of them are in mourning. Our losses are much
more noticeable at home than abroad, somehow. People seemed quite
surprised when I told them that things out here are as right as rain,
and that our troops are simply tumbling over one another, and that we
don't require any comic M.P.'s sent out to cheer us up. The fact is,
some people read the papers too much. At the present moment the London
press is, not to put too fine a point on it, making a holy show of
itself. I suppose there's some low-down political rig at the back of
it all, but the whole business must be perfect jam for the Bosches in
Berlin."
"What's the trouble?" inquired Major Kemp.
"Conscription, mostly. (Though why they should worry their little
heads about it, I don't know. If K. wants it we'll have it: if not,
we won't; so that's that!) Both sides are trying to drag the
great British Public into the scrap by the back of the neck.
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