Part 33 (1/2)

”c/o American Officers' Club, London.

”P.S.--We're working like beavers getting things ready for the American Army which is coming. It looks slow, but when Uncle Sam's men are ready, Fritz is going to enjoy a real avalanche. This, I promise you.

”L. C.”

IV

One morning a south coast train contained a first-cla.s.s compartment which was shared by Lieutenant Craighouse, U.S.A., and a timorously proper gentleman who read the _Times_ for twenty minutes, and then stared at nothing very intently--an art highly developed amongst those who wors.h.i.+p at the shrine of good form.

Craighouse was silent also for over an hour, which was a feat of the first magnitude for him. He was thinking of some official figures shown to him, in confidence, a week past--figures which gave the totals of England's manufacture of munitions and guns, her construction of aeroplanes and tanks, her production of all the minutiae of war essentials, in quant.i.ties which his brain could hardly grasp.

Judged by any standard, the achievement was amazing. For a nation at peace it would have been stupendous; but, in addition, this country that amused Americans, this nation of obsolete methods and lack of organization, had held the seas open and frustrated Germany's plans on land. He wondered if he had been a fool--if, after all, the English were not the most efficient race on earth. Just then an advertis.e.m.e.nt, conspicuously placed beside the mirror in the compartment, smote his eye, and he gasped.

”How many people ride in a carriage like this in one day?” he asked abruptly.

The well-bred one cleared his throat and shook his head. They had not been introduced; and, besides, he didn't know.

”Ten, twenty, forty--say thirty?” said Craighouse.

”Very probably--oh, yes--rather--quite.” The words were decorously languid.

”Thirty people a day,” went on Craighouse rapidly; ”say a thousand a month. In a year that would mean, roughly--oh, put it at ten thousand.

Am I right?”

The Englishman s.h.i.+fted uneasily. ”Very probably--oh yes--rather--quite.”

”The war has been going on for three years.” The American was warming to his subject. ”Three years mean that approximately thirty thousand pa.s.sengers have traveled in this compartment since the beginning of the war, eh?”

His companion reached for his cigarettes. ”Very probably,” he said. ”Oh yes--rath----”

”How many of these carriages are in use?” interrupted Craighouse. ”Two hundred, four hundred--say three hundred?”

”Very probably--oh yes----”

”I may be short or long on that estimate, but putting it at three hundred, this line has had about--well, roughly, nine million first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers. Is that correct?”

”Very pro----”

”Then, great Scott! look at the advertis.e.m.e.nt behind you, the most prominent one in the compartment. This line has had a chance to have a heart-to-heart talk with nine million average, well-to-do pa.s.sengers.

From the standpoint of propaganda, figure out the national importance of that. From the commercial point of view, estimate the value of that s.p.a.ce. And yet, after three years of war, it says that the steams.h.i.+p line from Newhaven to Dieppe is the shortest route to Austria, south Germany, and Spain! And it gives a map! Austria, south Germany, and Spain!----” The American's tirade ended in a splutter of indignation.

The train stopped at a junction station, and both men emerged, the Englishman proffering his cigarettes.

”Thanks very much,” said Craighouse, taking one. ”Good-morning.” And he disappeared into the crowd.

The Englishman paused to light his cigarette.

”What extraordinary people these Americans are!” he said to himself--which recalls the well-known saying of a Quaker to his wife, ”Every one is queer but thee and me; and thou beest a little queer.”