And he was thankful, too, all at once, that in America the fear and peril
of war were so remote. It was glorious, it was thrilling, but it was
terrible, too. He wondered how many of the scouts he knew, and how many of
those in school would lose their fathers or their brothers in this war that
was beginning. Truly, there is no argument for peace that can compare with
war itself! Yet how slowly we learn!
Grenfel had gone, and the troop was now in charge of a new scoutmaster,
Francis Wharton. Mr. Wharton was a somewhat older man. At first sight he
didn't look at all like the man to lead a group of scouts, but that, as it
turned out, was due to physical infirmities. One foot had been amputated at
the time of the Boer War, in which he had served with Grenfel. As a result
he was incapacitated from active service, although, as the scouts soon
learned, he had begged to be allowed to go in spite of it. He appeared at
the scout headquarters, the pavilion of a small local cricket club, on
Wednesday morning.
"I don't know much about this--more shame to me," he said, cheerfully,
standing up to address the boys. "But I think we can make a go of it--I
think we'll be able to do something for the Empire, boys. My old friend
John Grenfel told me a little; he said you'd pull me through. These are war
times and you'll have to do for me what many a company in the army does for
a young officer.
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