"How?" the cigarette-lighter sharply inquired, uniqueness being one
of his own chief claims to distinction.

"Strange," said the inkstand, "the blacksmith who made me was not
blown to pieces. The usual thing is for the shell to be a live one,
and no sooner does the blacksmith handle it than he and the soldiers
who brought it and several onlookers go to glory. The papers are full
of such incidents. But in my case--no. I remember," the inkstand was
continuing--

"Oh, give us a rest," said the shell door-stop. "If you knew how tired
I was of hearing about the War, when there's nothing to do for ever
but stop in this stuffy room. And to me it's particularly galling,
because I never exploded at all. I failed. For all the good we are any
more, we--we warriors--we might as well be mouldy old fossils like
the home-grown things in this room, who know of war or excitement
absolutely nothing."

"That's where you're wrong," said a quiet voice.

"Who's speaking?" the shell asked.

"I am," said the door. "You're quite right about yourselves--you War
souvenirs. You've done. You can still brag a bit, but that's all.
You're out of it. Whereas I--I'm in it still. I can make people run
for their lives."

"How?" asked the inkstand.