"There's the room just as those poor blighters of Belgians left it," continued the sergeant. "See the baby's shoes, and the kiddy's dress? There are one or two pictures on the wall, not of much value, or those blooming souvenir-hunters would have got 'em." "Do you think we shall lick 'em?" asked Tom. "Lick 'em! Of course we shall," said the sergeant, who had served nearly twenty years in the Army. "Mind you, it will be no easy job. Up to now they have had the upper hand of us, both in men and munitions; but we are gaining on 'em now. What I can't stand is those blooming swipes, those shirkers who sit at home and who call themselves men. I tell you I'm for conscription out and out. This is no job to be played with; if we don't put forth our strength we can't beat 'em. But just think of those swine, who read the papers and talk about beating the Germans, who strut about with their patent-leather boots and fine clothes, and try to make out that they are gentlemen, but who won't face the music; that's what sickens me. Who are we fighting for, I should like to know? We are fighting for them, and for our women, and for the old country. They think they can stop at home and criticise, and then when we have done the work, share the benefits. Great God!"--and here the sergeant indulged in some unprintable language--"I would like to get hold of them." "Isn't it dangerous here?" asked Tom, as another shrieking shell passed over their heads. "Not just now," replied the other; "their shells are falling on the other side of the town. Of course," he added casually, "they may fall here any moment." "I asked you just now," said Tom, "whether you hated the Germans?"