Chestnut Hill, where we were watching a strategical display, he pointed
at the military mass. "Maneuvers, do they call them? I could die of
laughing! The red caps have dug trenches and the white-band caps have
bunged 'em up again. Take away the War Office, and you've only kids'
games left."

"It's war!" explained an influential military correspondent, who was
standing by.

Then the journalist talked with a colleague about the Russians.

"The Russians!" Brisbille broke in; "when they've formed a
republic----"

"He's a simpleton," said the journalist, smiling.

The inebriate jumped astride his hobby horse. "War me no war, it's all
lunacy! And look, look--look at those red trousers that you can see
miles away! They must do it on purpose for soldiers to be killed, that
they don't dress 'em in the color of nothing at all!"

A lady could not help breaking in here: "What?" Change our little
soldiers' red trousers? Impossible! There's no good reason for it.
They would never consent! They would rebel."

"Egad!" said a young officer; "why we should all throw up our
commissions! And any way, the red trousers are not the danger one
thinks. If they were as visible as all that, the High Command would
have noticed it and would have taken steps--just for field service, and
without interfering with the parade uniform!"