"We’re serving our country, Ginger," said Kenneth. "It’s not a question of just the present moment. We’ve got to think of the future. What would life be worth to our people at home if the Germans had their way? You can get nothing good without paying the price, and it will be good if we can teach the Germans and the world that force isn’t everything, that people have a right to live their own lives without being bullied. For every man that dies, whether English or German, perhaps thousands may have a better time in days to come. That’s worth fighting for, and dying for, if need be. We’ve all got our little part to play. It’s not a thing you can argue about: you feel it. Look at what Sir Edward Grey said: he’d rather cut the old country altogether than be obliged to give up our good English ways and to put up with German tyranny. Don’t you feel like that too? Well, that’s why we are fighting; we’re fighting to call our souls our own, and, please God, we’ll win." CHAPTER XI THE DISAPPEARANCE OF GINGER It was when the battalion next returned to billets that the meaning of Ginger’s confabulations with the men of other platoons came out. One evening after supper Kenneth and Harry were smoking in the Bonnards’ kitchen. They were alone. Ginger and the other members of their billet had left them some little while before, and the men’s faces had worn the sly, conscious look of those who are meditating a secret design. "If I didn’t know Ginger, I should think they were up to some mischief," Harry had said. Presently the door opened, and Ginger reappeared, at the head of eight or ten men from other platoons of No. 3 Company. They all looked a little sheepish and uncomfortable as they filed into the room. Some hung back and were pushed forward by their mates. Ginger moved to the rear, and was instantly seized by several hands and expostulated with in fierce whispers. "Keep your wool on; I’m only going to shut the door," said Ginger. "What’s in the wind, you fellows?" said Kenneth. "Why are you hanging about the door? Come round the fire and light up: we’ll have a smoking concert or something." There were mutterings among the group. Some words reached the ears of the two men at the fire-place. "It’s your job: you’re a sergeant." "No fear; you don’t catch me..." "Ginger’s the man..." "Spouts like a M.P...." At last Ginger was pushed through to the front. He grinned, half turned to protest, was swung round again; then he drew his hand across his mouth. "Mr. Harry, and Mr. Amory," he began. "Oh, come now, no misters here," Harry broke in.