“That,” snapped the old gentleman, “is my business!” “Well,” announced the taxi-driver, with the air of a man who has been awarded a walk-over, “I’m fifty-seven. Any sons?” “Two.” “Two? Well, I got two too—one in the East Surreys and the other in the Tanks. (’E was a machine-gunner in the first place.) Both bin in the War four years. Both bin wounded. What are yours in? The Circumloosion Office, or the Conchies’ Battalion?”[2] “One is in the Coldstream Guards. The other was a Gunner, but he was killed.” The cabman became human at once. “I’m sorry for that—sir! May I ask where?” “First Battle of Ypres.” “Epray? That was where our Bert stopped his first one.” “I have a son too,” interpolated the Special eagerly—“in the—” But no one took any notice of him. The cabman and the old gentleman had entirely forgotten the existence of the rest of the party. “Not badly wounded, I hope?” “Nothing to signify—a couple of machine-gun bullets in the forearm. The second time was worser. That was at a place somewhere in the ’Indenburg line, spring of last year. ’En-in-’Ell, or some such name. Bert copped a sweet one that time—bit o’ shell-splinter as big as me ’and. It was nearly a year before ’e was fit to go back. You see—” But the old gentleman had laid an indignant hand on the other father’s shoulder. “You mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that your son, twice badly wounded, has been sent back to the firing-line again?” “I do. He’s there now.” For the second time that day the old gentleman began to shake his fist. “It’s monstrous!” he shouted. “It’s damnable! They did the same thing to my boy—my only surviving boy! It’s this infernal system of throwing all the burden on the willing horse—this miserable cringing to so-called Labour!” He choked. “The Government.… If I were Lloyd George.…” He exploded. “_Pah!_” “Never mind,” said a soothing voice from the interior of the cab. “If he won’t go, he won’t. Besides, it’s no use making him violent. I dare say I shall be able to get another taxi. Will you please open this door, Constable? It seems to have stuck.” The two parents stopped short, guiltily conscious of having strayed from their text. Al Thompson addressed the driver. “Say, friend,” he enquired, “ain’t you got enough gas to take this lady where she belongs?” “Gas?” The taxi-driver glared suspiciously. “He means petrol,” interpreted the Special. “I got about an inch-and-a-’alf in me tank,” replied the taxi-driver, half-resuming his professional air of martyrdom. “I been on this box since eight this mornin’, and ain’t ’ad a bite o’ dinner; but I’ll take the lady anywheres in reason. She ain’t _arst_ me yet. I don’t want to be disobligin’ to nobody. ’Elp everybody, and everybody’ll ’elp you! That’s my motto. Give us a ’and, matey”—to Al Thompson—“and back my keb off the curb. Crank ’er up, Jock! Thanks! Good-mornin’, all! Good-mornin’, sir!”