It sounds as if a dreadful quarrel would be raging between the Ancient on one side and on the other the Top-man, the whole series of under-Top-men and all persons in any way representing the military system. You'd expect to hear that the Ancient's conversation at mess is insubordinate, rebellious, or at least bitterly sarcastic. No such thing; the old gentleman becomes a more ardent militarist every day; wants to see once for all an end of all lawyer-politicians, and all so-called "business-men." "We have made a poor show of being civilians," is his point; "let's try being soldiers for a generation or two." On the whole he thinks we should find it easier to carry on as a British Empire in uniform than as a German province in mufti. He says that what's wrong with Prussian Militarism is that it is Prussian; to succeed, the thing has to be run by gentlemen. A Top-man honoured our mess the other night. Under the mellowing influence of our Curried Bully he unbent somewhat and encouraged the Ancient on his pet subject. Under the influence of the latter's theories he unbent still further. He discoursed upon the true inwardness of the military method of running an office, pausing at last for the Ancient to say a few words. "Oh," said he, "I don't allow myself to be put off by a trifle like that. There's many a kind heart behind a Buff slip, and we all have our little weaknesses." The idea of having a little weakness was so novel to the Top-man that it caused him to choke and to be led from the mess, eventually, in a state of nervous exhaustion.