he was doing a big thing, and he answered again, in his
modest way, that he didn't see what else a man could do.

"My son Alfred and I," he said, "talked it over last
night and we agreed that we can run the car ourselves,
or make a shot at it anyway. After all, it's war time."

"What branch of the service are you putting your chauffeur
in?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," he answered. "I think I'll send him up
in the air. It's dangerous, of course, but it's no time
to think about that."

So, in due time, Mr. Spugg's chauffeur, Henry, went
overseas. He was reported first as in England. Next he
was right at the front, at the very firing itself. We
knew then,--everybody in the club knew that Mr. Spugg's
chauffeur might be killed at any moment. But great as
the strain must have been, Spugg went up and down to his
office and in and out of the club without a tremor. The
situation gave him a new importance in our eyes, something
tense.

"This seems to be a terrific business," I said to him
one day at lunch, "this new German drive."

"My chauffeur," said Mr. Spugg, "was right in the middle
of it."