He thought it was too rough. He thought any game was a poor game in
which players were likely to be hurt. And yet--he had been eager for
the rough game of war! The roughest game of all!

Ah, but that was not a game to him! He was not one of those who went
to war with a light heart, as they might have entered upon a football
match. All honor to those who went into the war so--they played a
great part and a noble part! But there were more who went to war as
my boy did--taking it upon themselves as a duty and a solemn
obligation. They had no illusions. They did not love war. No! John
hated war, and the black ugly horrors of it. But there were things he
hated more than he hated war. And one was a peace won through
submission to injustice.

Have I told you how my boy looked? He was slender, but he was strong
and wiry. He was about five feet five inches tall; he topped his Dad
by a handspan. And he was the neatest boy you might ever have hoped
to see. Aye--but he did not inherit that from me! Indeed, he used to
reproach me, oftentimes, for being careless about my clothes. My
collar would be loose, perhaps, or my waistcoat would not fit just
so. He'd not like that, and he would tell me so!

When he did that I would tell him of times when he was a wee boy, and
would come in from play with a dirty face; how his mother would order
him to wash, and how he would painstakingly mop off just enough of
his features to leave a dark ring abaft his cheeks, and above his
eyes, and below his chin.

"You wash your face, but never let on to your neck," I would tell him
when he was a wee laddie.