"Delightful," replied Peter.

"Well, do you know--Knott--that--" David's pipe had gone out. He moved
slowly towards his chair and began looking for the matches. "Do you know,
Plimsoll is one of the most gifted"--he was holding a match to his pipe
as he spoke--"gifted young artists in the country--and two days
ago--he--was literally hungry--" David took his pipe from his mouth and
looked at Peter to see the effect of his words.

"It's very sad, very"--Peter Knott's tone was sympathetic--"but after
all, they're young; they could enlist, couldn't they?"

David sat down in his chair and pulled at his pipe reflectively before
answering.

"They're--neither of them--strong, Knott. They'd--be laid up in a week."

"Um--hard luck that," Peter Knott agreed. "But what's to be done?
Everybody's in the same boat. The writers now, I wager they're just as
badly hit, aren't they?"

"That depends--" David paused, and Peter gave him time to finish his
sentence. "The occasional--er--contributors--are having a bad time--but
the regular journalists--the people on the staffs--are all right--of
course I know cases--there's a man called--er, let me see--I've got a
letter from him somewhere--Wyatt's his name--now, he's--" David's huge
body began to rise again gradually. Peter Knott stopped him.

"By the way," he remarked briskly, "I saw your friend Seaford yesterday."