Cuthwright was the greatest man in the city and his rebuke threw John into a terrific struggle. He felt angry and baffled and lost. He went to his father’s farm and sulked there, and then went to church and listened with doubtful ears to a plea for internationalism and the World Court. He wanted to rise and blaspheme the preacher; but he learned, after his sulking was done, that he had kept all the while, overgrown with boasting and anecdote, a belief in peace: it was there, under the fierce thicket of his words and gestures, and it came little by little like a thing out of hiding. And he wept one day in bitter astonishment and then felt a new and frenzied eagerness, as if he had come out of darkness, a vault, to look at a clear sky. He returned to the city and the first to greet him said: “Well, how’s the braggart today? Hey, how’s your one-man war against Germany?” And another said: “Hello, John. You still capturing that machine-gun nest?” And John looked at them with strange, unhappy eyes. He went away from them without speaking and entered a pool hall and saw the winks and leers. He sat and read a newspaper or looked at the men, thoughtfully, gravely, wondering about them and about himself. A slender, fair-haired youth came up and sat by him. “John,” he said, “just between me and you, isn’t war plain damned murder?” John hesitated. He looked at the clear blue eyes, candid and friendly. “You said so, years ago,” the young man went on. “I was just a kid then. I heard you. I’ve never forgotten it. And Professor Jameson heard you, too.” “Who is Professor Jameson?” “He teaches in the college here. He would like to meet you.” “Why?” asked John, feeling a little sick. “Oh, I don’t know. He—he hates war. And he says you did—once.” John was thoughtful for a long moment. “Yes,” he said, looking at the young man with eyes full of memory, “I—I did.” He turned away, full of bitter loneliness and grief. It was Arnold Jameson who set John on his feet again. Jameson was a small unobtrusive man with large tragic eyes. He was gentle and kind, and he had John over to dinner; after dinner he said: “I suppose you know Jim Harlan died last week. And Walt Ainsworth last summer. Both from old wounds. And Dick Roscoe hasn’t more than two or three years to go. But the world is shaping up toward peace now, Benton, and I’ve often wondered why you don’t take a hand in it.” John was silent and ashamed, remembering how he had boasted of medals and brawls and told of legendary Germans whom he had run through with a bayonet. “In 1917 I opposed the war,” Jameson went on, “and nearly lost my job. But now we can teach peace and get away with it.” He looked at John’s sensitive, unhappy face and wondered about him. “Seven years ago,” he said, “you believed in peace. What changed you?” “I—I don’t know,” John said. “I’ve some books here,” Jameson said, “that I thought you might like to read.”