Burned Bridges

"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."