“Wait!” cried Baltazar, putting his hand up to his forehead. “In September nineteen fourteen Kitchener called for a _million men_?” “Yes, yes, that’s all ancient history. I was telling you—when the cry went out, I said to myself: a million men will want accommodation. Temporary buildings. Huts. No end of timber. I hadn’t a penny in the world. But I did a big bluff and sold the Government timber which I hadn’t got for twice the price I knew I could buy it at. In six months I was a rich man, and I’ve been growing richer and richer ever since. I’ve got a flat in Park Lane and this house in the country, and I’m on Munitions, and I have my cars and as much petrol to burn as I want, and I’m a useful man to the Government, and doing my bit for the war. And none of your blooming books about it. Just plain common sense. If I had been worrying my head about books, I should have lost my chance. Just what you’ve done. You’ve been burying yourself in books and haven’t even heard of the war, let alone doing anything for your country. Books make me tired. To hell with them!” Baltazar looked at the puffy, small-eyed man in his clear way. He disliked him exceedingly. Even with the most limited knowledge of war conditions, it was evident he had been exploiting them to his own advantage. But when you haven’t a rag of your own to your back and are dressed in another man’s pyjamas, lying in his bed and eating his food, you must observe the decencies of life. “I suppose lots of fortunes are being made out of this war.” “I should think so. Those honestly made, well, the chaps with brains deserve them. But, at the same time, there’s a lot of profiteering going on”—Pillivant shook an unctuous head—“which is a perfect disgrace.” “Profiteering—that’s a new word.” “You’ll find lots of new words and lots of all sorts of new things now you’ve waked up.” “I’m sure I shall,” said Baltazar. “And now, if you’ve half an hour to spare, I wonder if you would mind telling me something about the war.” * * * * *