What else could he have done beyond what he had done?
Become a special constable? Grotesque. He simply could not see himself
as a special constable, and if the country could not employ him more
usefully than in standing on guard over an electricity works or a
railway bridge in the middle of the night, the country deserved to
lose his services. Become a volunteer? Even more grotesque. Was he, a
man turned fifty, to dress up and fall flat on the ground at the
word of some fantastic jackanapes, or stare into vacancy while some
inspecting general examined his person as though it were a tailor's
mannikin? He had tried several times to get into a Government
department which would utilise his brains, but without success. And
the club hummed with the unimaginable stories related by disappointed
and dignified middle-aged men whose too eager patriotism had been
rendered ridiculous by the vicious foolery of Government departments.
No! He had some work to do and he was doing it. People were looking
to him for decision, for sagacity, for initiative; he supplied these
things. His work might grow even beyond his expectations; but if it
did not he should not worry. He felt that, unfatigued, he could and
would contribute to the mass of the national resolution in the latter
and more racking half of the war.
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