"Stuff! Nonsense!" said the judge's son. "We are always having scares. They sell papers and give the fellows at the Foreign Office a chance to look unconcerned. But let's have the opinion of an international expert, of the great and only philosopher, guide, companion, and friend. What do you think of the crisis, eh, Hugo? Soberly, now. The fate of nations may hang on your words. If not, at least the price of a ginger soda!" It was around Hugo Mallin that the group had formed. Groups were always forming around Hugo. He could spring the unexpected and incongruous and make people laugh. Slight but wiry of physique, he had light hair, a freckled and rather nondescript nose, large brown eyes, and a broad, sensitive mouth. Nature had not attempted any regularity of features in his case. She had been content with making each one a mobile servant of his mind. In repose his face was homely, and it was a mask. "Come on, Hugo! Out with it!" Hugo's brow contracted; the lines of the mask were drawn in deliberate seriousness. "I never hear war mentioned that I don't have a shiver right down my spine, as I did when I was a little boy and went into the cellar without a light," he replied. "Fear?" exclaimed Eugene Aronson, the farmer's son, whose big, plain face expressed dumb incomprehension. He alone was standing. Being the giant and the athlete of the company, the march had not tired him. "Fear?" some of the others repeated. The sentiment was astounding, and Hugo was as manifestly in earnest as if he were a minister addressing a parliamentary chamber. "Yes, don't you?" asked Hugo, in bland surprise. "I should say not!" declared Eugene. "Do you want to be killed?" asked Hugo, with profound interest. "The bullet isn't made that will get me!" answered Eugene, throwing back his broad shoulders. "I don't know," mused Hugo, eying the giant up and down. "You're pretty big, Gene, and a bullet that only nicked one of us in the bark might get you in the wood. However, if you are sure that you are in no danger, why, you don't count. But let's take a census while we are about it and see who wants to be killed. First, you, Armand; do you?" he asked the doctor's son, Armand Daution. Armand grinned. The others grinned, not at him, but at the quizzical solemnity of Hugo's manner. "If so, state whether you prefer bullets or shrapnel, early in the campaign or late, à la carte or table d'hôte, morning or--" Hugo went on. But laughter drowned the sentence, though Hugo's face was without a smile. "You ought to go on the stage!" some one exclaimed. "If it were as easy to amuse a pay audience as you fellows, I might," Hugo replied. "But I've another question," he pursued. "Do you think that the fellows on the other side of the frontier want to be killed?" "No danger! They'll give in. They always do," said Eugene. "I confess that it hardly seems reasonable to make war over the Bodlapoo affair!" This from the judge's son.