looked at the eggs, “You would have been singers too, but you were
forsaken.”

These boys—they did not forsake their chum. They said, “Buck up, old boy.
We’ll help you.”

“No,” he said. “This is my job.”

So they stood by him and cheered him on. People, I say again, don’t die of
overmuch love, but for the want of a bit of it. These boys stood by my
champion swearer, and when he was putting the polishing touches on the
last gun he stood up, his face radiant, like a man that has fought a
battle and won: “Boys, this is the last gun I shall clean for anybody
under these conditions, because, God helping me, I’m going to see this
thing through.”

And he _is_ seeing it through.

* * * * *

I was at a home for limbless men the other day—there are over one hundred
and eighty of them in that home. I held my hand out to shake hands with
the first two men I met, and they laughed at me. I looked down for their
hands—they hadn’t got one between them! I took the face of one of those
dear boys and I patted it. I wanted to kiss it with gratitude. I wonder
how you feel!

I walked round amongst those boys—one hundred and eighty limbless! I found
one boy without legs and without an arm. He was just a trunk, and his
comrades, those who could, were carrying him around. He was the sunshine