"This won’t do, you know. You are both certain to obtain commissions. I don’t object to your serving as Tommies for a week or two, for the sake of example, you know; but I’m not going to allow you to let yourself down permanently, Harry. Your friend, of course, can do as he pleases." "I’ve promised, Father," said Harry. "Promised what, may I ask?" "To share and share alike with the men." "Fiddlesticks! It won’t do. Good gracious, what are we coming to? The whole social order will be destroyed. You’ll succeed me at the head of this business, when you’ve settled down and are a trifle less scatter-brained than you are now. How in the world do you expect to maintain the proper relation between employer and employed if you put yourself on a level with the hands? Look at it logically. Take it that I myself had been idiot enough to do as you’ve done, and put myself in the position to be ordered about by some factory hand who happened to be a sergeant, or some young whipper-snapper fresh from school who happened to have got a commission: what would become of my authority, I should like to know? How could I maintain control over my workmen? Do look at it reasonably. It’s preposterous." The idea of portly Mr. Randall as a Tommy was almost too much for the boys’ gravity. But Harry answered meekly: "Well, we’ve enlisted over a hundred men, and there’ll be more to-morrow. That’s what you wanted, Dad, isn’t it? You won’t have to close down now." "But I didn’t want my son to consort with a lot of roughs--socialists, too, to a man, by gad! You can’t associate with such fellows without getting coarsened, and besides, as I said before, it’s the principle of the thing--the principle of social order, caste, call it what you like. Destroy caste, and you ruin old England. Come now, I’ll see the colonel, and he’ll arrange to get you gazetted to the regiment. You’ll then be in a natural position of authority over my men, and I’ll be proud to think that my works has furnished a contingent to the New Army, with my own son as one of the officers." "You ought to have lived in the middle ages, Dad," said Harry, admiringly. "What a jolly old feudal chief you’d have been! But it can’t be done. Amory and I have thrown in our lot with the men, and we’ll stick it: we can’t go back on our word." "I’ll see that you have proper under-clothing, my dear," said Mrs. Randall. "I’m told that some of the poor men have only one shirt." "Shirts!" cried Mr. Randall. "Oh, I’m out of all patience with you. Do as you please, do as you please. I wash my hands of it. Don’t expect any sympathy from me if you are disgusted, horrified, in a week."