And Richard suddenly was faint--Jaz was leading him by the arm--leading him away--in the city night that roared from the direction of the hall, while men and women were running thither madly, and running as madly away, and motor cars came rushing: and even the fire-brigade with bright brass helmets--a great rush towards the centre of conflict--and a rush away, outwards. While hats--white hats--Somers, in his dazed condition saw three or four, and they occupied his consciousness as if they were thousands. “We must go back,” he cried. “We must go back to them!” “What for?” said Jaz. “We’re best away.” And he led him sturdily down a side street, while Somers was conscious only of the scene he had left, and the sound of shots. They went to one of the smaller, more remote Digger’s Clubs. It consisted only of one large room, meeting room and gymnastics hall in turn, and a couple of small rooms, one belonging to the secretary and the head, and the other a sort of little kitchen with a sink and a stove. The one-armed caretaker was in attendance, but nobody else was there. Jaz and Somers went into the secretary’s room, and Jaz made Richard lie down on the sofa. “Stay here,” he said, “while I go and have a look round.” Richard looked at him. He was feeling very sick: perhaps the bang over the head. Yet he wanted to go back into the town, into the melee. He felt he would even die if he did so. But then why not die? Why stay outside the row? He had always been outside the world’s affairs. “I’ll come with you again,” he said. “No, I don’t want you,” snapped Jaz. “I have a few of my own things to attend to.” “Then I’ll go by myself,” said Richard. “If I were you I wouldn’t,” said Jaz. And Richard sat back feeling very sick, and confused. But such a pain in his stomach, as if something were torn there. And he could not keep still--he wanted to do something. Jaz poured out a measure of whiskey for himself and one for Richard. Then he went out, saying: “You’d best stay here till I come back, Mr Somers. I shan’t be very long.” Jaz too was very pale, and his manner was furtive, like one full of suppressed excitement. Richard looked at him, and felt very alien, far from him and everybody. He rose to his feet to rush out again. But the torn feeling at the pit of his stomach was so strong he sat down and shoved his fists in his abdomen, and there remained. It was a kind of grief, a bitter, agonised grief for his fellow-men. He felt it was almost better to die, than to see his fellow-men go mad in this horror. He could hear Jaz talking for some time to the one-armed care-taker, a young soldier who was lame with a bad limp as well as maimed. “I can’t do anything. I can’t be on either side. I’ve got to keep away from everything,” murmured Richard to himself. “If only one might die, and not have to wait and watch through all the human horror. They are my fellow-men, they are my fellow-men.”