each man has in the course of his life to make; and Hardiman understood
his need better than he understood it himself. His need was to formulate
aloud the case for and against, to another person, not so much that he
might receive advice as, that he might see for himself with truer eyes.

"The one side is clear enough," said Luttrell with a trace of
bitterness. "There was a Major I once heard of at Dover. He trained his
company in night-marches by daylight. The men held a rope to guide them
and were ordered to shut their eyes. The Major, you see, hated stirring
out at night. He liked his bridge and his bottle of port. Well, give me
another year and that's the kind of soldier I shall become--the worst
kind--the slovenly soldier. I mean slovenly in mind, in intention. Even
now I come, already bored, to the barrack square and watch the time to
see if I can't catch an earlier train from Gravesend to London."

"And when you do?" asked Hardiman.

Luttrell nodded.

"When I do," he agreed, "I get no thrill out of my escape, I assure you.
I hate myself a little more--that's all."

"Yes," said Hardiman. He was too wise a man to ask questions. He just
sat and waited, inviting Luttrell to spread out his troubles by his very
quietude.

"Then there are these games," Luttrell cried in a swift exasperation,
"--these damned games! From the first day when the Finns marched out
with their national flag and the Russians threatened to withdraw if they
did it again----" he broke off suddenly. "Of course you know soldiers