Anne Caspar nodded dubiously. "If it's the right sort," she said. "It may save him," continued her mentor. "It can't do him any harm. And anyway, it's worth trying. You send Ernie round to me. I'll have a talk with him, and I'll drop in to-morrow and have a chat with his father." Ernie, when approached, made no difficulty. He was young; his enthusiasms were easily stirred; and the most famous of South Country regiments, the Forest Rangers, known in history as the Hammer-men, had been more than living up to its reputation in South Africa. "You'll travel," Mr. Trupp told him. "Go to India as like as not and see a bit of the world. Our Joe's going to Sandhurst next year. Nothing'll do but he must be a Hammer-man--like his grandfather before him. I dare say he'll join you out there." But if Ern was too young to fight his own battles, there was one doughty warrior who meant to fight them for him. Mr. Pigott came round to see the Doctor in roaring wrath. The South African War was in full swing. The frenzy of lusty paganism, called Imperialism, which was sweeping the country, had revolted the schoolmaster and many more. In the estimation of these, the horrors enacted at home in the name of God and Empire surpassed the obscenities of the war itself. Mr. Pigott saw Militarism as a raddled prostitute dancing on the souls and bodies of men. He burst like a tempest into Mr. Trupp's consulting room. "The Army!" he cried. "You're going to send that boy into the Army! Take him a first-class ticket to Hell at once! Where's your Militarism led us? The war's costing us half a million a week! Over a thousand casualties at Paardeberg alone! Rowntree stoned in York; Leonard Courtney boycotted in London; Lloyd George escaping for his life over the house-tops for daring to preach Christ! And you call yourself a Radical, Mr. Trupp!--Shame on you!" Mr. Trupp listened, amused and patient. "It's discipline he wants," he said at last. "He's soft and slack. He'll never do any good without it. The artist type like his father." The other began to blaze again. "Discipline!" he cried. "You talk like a Prussian drill-sergeant. I tell you that lad's got a soul. You _discipline_ beasts of the field--with a Big Stick; but you _grow_ souls." Mr. Trupp shook his head. "We're only just emerging from the mud," he said. "The Brute still lurks in all of us. Watch him or he'll catch you out. And remember the only thing the Brute understands is the Big Stick. Without it he'll either go to sleep--like Ernie; or pounce on some one who has gone to sleep--like Alf." Mr. Pigott drew himself up. There was about him the dignity of conviction. "Mr. Trupp," he said. "Fear never made a man yet. Faith's the thing." The Doctor lifted his shrewd kind face, and eyed the other through his pince-nez. "Fear plays its part too," he said. "We none of us can do without the Lash as yet." CHAPTER XVI FATHER, MOTHER AND SON