And Andy Hall was a logger from his head to his heels. That was his trade, the only means of livelihood he ever practiced. But he did not look the typical logger now. Apparently he did not follow the average logger's cycle of a red-hot time in town as a reaction from intensive labor in the woods. "This fracas interests me more than you'd think, maybe," Andy proceeded over his glass. "In the first place it was inevitable as the result of the constant extension of spheres of influence--which is merely a euphemism for control of certain markets. The world's getting too small for the competitive system. Commercial interests are bound to clash. Armies are the policemen of trade." Rod smiled. It was not a new nor in any way revolutionary statement. He had heard the same interpretation of world affairs, more subtly expressed, in university classrooms. "What's the navy?" "The water patrol," Andy bantered. "'Oh, the liner she's a lady An' she never looks nor 'eeds. The man o' war's 'er 'usband--' "Out of the mouth of the greatest drum-beater in English letters I answer you." "It's a wonder you aren't away," Hall changed his tone abruptly. "Your brother's gone. Or have you got better sense?" "Sense? Is there any sense in a war?" Rod countered. "But we're in it. If fellows like me won't go, who will?" "You've said something," Andy replied quietly. "Leaving aside the sordid causes of war, war itself is the most senseless pastime any nation can engage in. There's a confusion of sentiments, a queer mixture of anger and defiance, vindictive cravings for retaliation, and hatreds that civilized men should have outgrown. An ingrowing fever to see your own side win. Once the first gun pops, it doesn't seem to matter _why_--any more than it matters to two men scrapping what the scrap started over. What each wants is to whip the other. But this particular war--commerce is at the bottom of it. You know it. You're too wise not to know. Struggle for commercial supremacy has started every war since the Crusades, and a few of the dynastic rumpuses. This is a row over property rights, real or potential. And as a member of the propertied class you have a vital interest in it. The bird who started that fuss in front of the _Province_ wasn't so far wrong. He has nothing to fight for--nothing worth fighting for. You have." "From a purely material point of view, certainly," Rod answered. "But can't you see any more in it than that?"