"Discount that, Sophie," Carr remarked calmly. "The Germans are reckoned
in the civilized scale the same as ourselves. I'm not ready to damn
sixty-five million human beings outright because certain members of the
group act like brutes. The chances are that a German soldier would be
shot by his own command, for robbery or rape or any of these
brutalities, as promptly as one of our own offenders. The fact of the
matter is that there are a lot of hysterical people loose among us who
seem to think they can kill German soldiers by calling them bad names.
The Allies will win this war with cannon and bayonets, but up to the
present we seem to think we must supplement our bullets with epithets.
Doubtless the Germans do the same at home. It's part of the game."
"Oh, I suppose so," Sophie admitted. "But what a horror this war must be
for those helpless people who are caught in its sweep."
"If it affects you like that, be thankful it isn't over here," Carr said
lightly. "War is all that Sherman said it was. As a matter of fact
modern warfare with every scientific and chemical means of destruction
at its hand can't result in anything but horror piled on horror. I look
for some startling--"
The faint whirr of a buzzer and the patter of a maid's feet along the
hall, checked Carr's speech. He did not resume. Instead he reached for a
box of cigars, and lighted one. By that time Tommy Ashe was being
ushered in.
Tommy exuded geniality from every pore of his ruddy countenance. He
accepted the drink Carr rose to offer. He lifted the glass and smiled at
Thompson.
"Here's to success," he toasted. "I believe," he went on between sips of
wine, "that things are going to look up finely for us. I sold a truck
and two touring cars this afternoon. People seem to be loosening up for
some reason. You ought to get your share with the Summit, Wes. Snappy
little machine, that."
"You rising business men," Carr drawled, "want to learn to leave your
business at the office when you come to my house. Now, we were just
discussing the war. What sort of a prophet are you, Tommy? How long will
it last? Sophie was wondering if it would be over before all the
eligible young men depart across the sea."
"Well," Tommy grinned cheerfully, "I'm no prophet. Not being in the
confidence of the Allied command, I can't say. I'd hazard a guess,
though, that there'll be plenty of good men left for Sophie to make a
choice among. I can pass on another man's prophecy, though. Had a letter
from one of my brothers yesterday. He was at Mons, got pinked in the
leg, and is now training Territorials. He is sure the grand finale will
come about midsummer next. The way he put it sounds logical. Neither
side can make headway this winter. Germany has made her maximum effort.
If she couldn't beat us when she took the field equipped to the last
button she never can. By spring we'll be organized. France and England
on the west front. The Russian steam roller on the east. The fleet
maintaining the blockade. They can't stand the pressure. It isn't
possible. The Hun--confound him--will blow up with a loud bang about
next July. That's Ned's say-so, and these line officers are pretty
conservative as a rule. War's their business, and they don't nurse
illusions about it."