We
don't make soldiers of every man in the country."
"No--and, by Jove, they do that, don't they, Harry? I've got a cousin who's
French. And he expects to serve his term in the army. He's in the class of
1918. You see, he knows already when he will have to go, and just where he
will report--almost the regiment he'll join. But he's hoping they'll let
him be in the cavalry, instead of the infantry or the artillery."
"There you are! Here and in America, we don't have to have such tremendous
armies, because we haven't got countries that we may have to fight across
the street--you know what I mean. England has to have a tremendous navy,
but that makes it unnecessary for her to have such a big army."
"I see you've got the idea exactly, Fleming," said a new voice, breaking
into the conversation. The two scouts looked up to see the smiling face of
their scoutmaster, John Grenfel. He was a big, bronzed Englishman, sturdy
and typical of the fine class to which he belonged--public school and
university man, first-class cricketer and a football international who had
helped to win many a hard fought game for England from Wales or Scotland or
Ireland. The scouts were returning from a picnic on Wimbledon Common, in
the suburbs of London, and Grenfel was following his usual custom of
dropping into step now with one group, now with another.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25