Having said this the old man pulled out a very small pipe and filled it
with exceedingly black tobacco. He lit it, then he began talking again
rather more excitedly.

"It is a terrible thing and an unhappy thing none the less," he went on,
"that a man should be taken out to be shot and should be saved by the
tears of a woman." Then he added, "Of what use are wars? How foolish it
is that men should kill each other! If there were a war I would not
fight. Would you?"

I said I thought I would; but whether I should like to or not would
depend upon the war.

He was eager to contradict and to tell me that war was wrong and stupid.
Having behind him the logical training of fifteen Christian centuries he
was in no way muddle-headed upon the matter. He saw very well that his
doctrine meant that it was wrong to have a country, and wrong to love
it, and that patriotism was all bosh, and that no ideal was worth
physical pain or trouble. To such conclusions had he come at the end of
his life.

The white horse meanwhile slouched; Bavai grew somewhat nearer as we sat
in silence after his last sentence. He was turning many things over in
his mind. He veered off on to political economy.

"When the rich man at the Manufactory here, the place where they sell
phosphates for the land, when he stands beer to all the workmen and to
the countryside, I always say, 'Fools! All this will be put on to the
cost of the phosphates; they will cost you more!'"