involved so many bound to me by close ties of friendship and
affection.

I ought to explain how I come to be writing this at all.

Well, to fill in my time, I first started by a diary--a sort of
War Diary of Wellingsford, the little country town in question.
Then things happened with which my diary was inadequate to cope.
Everyone came and told me his or her side of the story. All
through, I found thrust upon me the parts of father-confessor,
intermediary, judge, advocate, and conspirator.... For look you,
what kind of a life can a man lead situated as I am? The crowning
glory of my days, my wife, is dead. I have neither chick nor
child. No brothers or sisters, dead or alive. The Bon Dieu and
Sergeant Marigold (the latter assisted by his wife and a maid or
two) look after my creature comforts. What have I in the world to
do that is worth doing save concern myself with my country and my
friends?

With regard to my country, in these days of war, I do what I can.
Until finally flattened out by the War Office, I pestered them for
such employment as a cripple might undertake. As an instance of
what a paralytic was capable I quoted Couthon, member of the
National Convention and the Committee of Public Safety. You can
see his chair, not very unlike mine, in the Musee Carnavalet in
Paris. Perhaps that is where I blundered. The idea of a shrieking
revolutionary in Whitehall must have sent a cold shiver down their
spines. In the meanwhile, I serve on as many War Committees in
Wellingsford as is physically possible for Sergeant Marigold to
get me into. I address recruiting meetings. I have taken earnest