But would he go back? Would he have to go back? If he went back, would he be able to stick it? These questions perturbed Peter; and he began testing himself, overhauling the machinery of his mind. Deliberately, he conjured up the worst of his “out there” experiences; saw them clear-pictured at their limit of horror. The process strained his new will-power very nearly to breaking-point. Twice,—after particularly terrible visions—he abandoned hope. The old reproach of “coward” formulated itself in his brain. Then he began to make excuses for himself: “It was absurd to go back. Unpatriotic. Unfair to the men. His nerve might give out in a crisis. He might panic; make some ghastly mistake, involving not only his own honour but the lives of others.” . . . This last thought nauseated him; and finally he defeated it. His physical condition, curiously enough, the man omitted to consider. “I’ll go back,” said P.J., “be damned if I won’t go back. Self-respect demands it of me. What would happen to the country if everybody who had the slightest excuse stopped at home!” He began to think about the country, not nebulously but as Something Definite. There were only two classes of people in any country—Citizens and Parasites. The Citizen lived _for_ the country; the Parasite lived on the country. In time of War, the able-bodied citizen had one clear duty—to fight. And he must fight to his last gasp. Any other argument was pure eye-wash. Peter figured the problem out in his favourite rowing-terms. You had to pull your own weight in the boat. If you didn’t, you became a “passenger.” Racing-eights couldn’t afford “passengers.” And you had to “pull your own weight” from pistol-crack to winning-post. Otherwise, _you_—not the other seven oarsmen and the cox but _you_, you yourself—lost the race; but you didn’t lose it for yourself, you lost it for the School. He tried to get round this by arguing: “But we can’t all be in the Eight. The Eight is a picked body. Besides somebody has to make the boat, the oars: otherwise one couldn’t row at all.” “Specious!” decided our Mr. Jameson, “very specious. But it doesn’t apply to me. I’m in the Eight—a picked man. I’m trained to row—not to make oars. This is my privilege. If I throw it away—if I refuse to row. . . .” And he thought of Pat’s brother-in-law, Sir Hubert Rawlings, tricked out in “colours” he had not earned, running along the tow-path, barking encouragement to the rowers. “Swine,” said Peter—and this time he spoke aloud. His mind was made up: he would finish the course. § 5 . . . And the doctors laughed at him. They laughed very kindly; but all the same, they laughed. Heron Baynet began the disillusionment when he signed the “opinion” demanded by the Medical Board.