vivid. When appealed to by the recruiting officer, he confirmed the
opinion that every Englishman of fighting age should be in France;
that's where the boys of America would be if their country were in the
same predicament. Four out of the five intended victims applauded this
sentiment--they applauded too boisterously for complete sincerity,
because they felt that they could do no less. The fifth, a scholarly,
pale-faced fellow, drew attention to himself by his silence.

"You're going to join, too, aren't you?" the recruiting officer asked.

The pale-faced man swallowed. There was no doubt that he was
scared. The American's morbid details had been enough to frighten
anybody. He was so frightened that he had the pluck to tell the
truth.

"I'd like to," he hesitated, "but----. I've got an imagination. I
should see things as twice as horrible. I should live through every
beastliness before it occurred. When it did happen, I should turn
coward. I should run away, and you'd shoot me as a deserter. I'd
like--not yet, I can't."

He was the bravest man in the tap-room that night. If he's still
alive, he probably wears decorations. He was afraid, just as every one
else was afraid; but he wasn't sufficiently a coward to lie about his
terror. His voice was the voice of millions at that hour.

A day came when England's jeopardy was brought home to her. I don't
remember the date, but I remember it was a Sabbath. We had pulled up
before a village post office to get the news; it was pasted behind the
window against the glass. We read, "_Boulogne has fallen_." The news