It was very near, indeed. Thousands of those gray sheep were lying dead on the plains of Picardy--the Allies fought with their backs to the wall--Americans who had swaggered, secure in the prowess of Uncle Sam, swaggered no longer, and pondered on the parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. Slowly the nation waked to what was before it. In America now lay the hope of the world. The Wolf must be trapped, the sheep saved in spite of themselves, those poor sheep, driven blindly to slaughter. The General was not quite sure that they were sheep, or that they were being driven. He held, rather, that they knew what they were about--and were not to be pitied. Teddy, considering this gravely, went back to previous meditations, and asked if he prayed for his enemies. "Bless my soul," said the old gentleman, "why should I?" "Well, Mother says we must, and then some day they'll stop and say they are sorry--" The General chuckled, "Your mother is optimistic." "What's 'nopt'mistic?" "It means always believing that nice things will happen." "Don't you believe that nice things will happen?" "Sometimes--" "Don't you believe that the war will stop?" "Not until we've thrown the full force of our fighting men into it--at what a sacrifice." "Can't God make it stop?" "He can, but He won't, not if He's a God of justice," said this staunch old patriot, "until America has brought them to their knees--" "Will they say they are sorry then?" "It won't make very much difference what they say--" But Teddy, having been brought up to understand the things which belong to an officer and a gentleman, had his own ideas on the subject. "Well, I should think they'd ought to say they were sorry--." CHAPTER XXVII MARCHING FEET The end of April brought much rain; torrents swept down the smooth streets, and the beauty of the carefully kept flower beds in the parks was blurred by the wet. The General, limping from window to window, chafed. He wanted to get out, to go over the hills and far away; with the coming of the spring the wander-hunger gripped him, and with this restless mood upon him he stormed at Bronson. "It's a dog's life." "Yes, sir," said Bronson, dutifully. "It is dead lonesome, Bronson, and I can't keep Jean tied here all of the time. She is looking pale, don't you think she is looking pale?" "Yes, sir. I think she misses Mr. Derry." "Well, she'll miss him a lot more before she gets him back," grimly. "He'll be going over soon--" "Yes, sir." "I wish I were going," the old man was wistful. "Think of it, Bronson, to be over there--in the thick of it, playing the game, instead of rotting here--" It was, of course, the soldier's point of view. Bronson, being hopelessly civilian, did his best to rise to what was expected of him. "You like it then, sir?" "Like it? It is the only life. We've lost something since men took up the game of business in place of the game of fighting."