"Yes, a soldier."
The word came like a douche of cold water on hysteria, calming the boy
suddenly. He tapped his forehead. "Say, are you balmy up here?"
"Possibly; but whether I'm balmy or not, a soldier is what you'll have
to be. Don't you read the papers? Don't you hear people talking? Why,
man alive, two or three months from now every fellow of your age and
mine will be marching behind a drum."
The boy's haggard face went blank from the sheer shock of it. The idea
was not brand new, but it was incredible. Tad Whitelaw was not one of
those who took much interest in public affairs or kept pace with them.
"Oh, rot!"
"It isn't rot. Can't you see it for yourself? If this country pitches
in--"
"Oh, but it won't."
"Ask anyone. Ask your own father. That's my point. If we do pitch in
your father will be one of the big men of the two continents. You're
his only son. You'll _have_ to play up to him."
Tom watched the hardened, dissipated young face contract with a queer
kind of gravity. The teeth gritted, the lips grew set. It gave him the
chance to go on.
"There aren't a half dozen men in the country who'd be able to swing
what your father'll be swinging. Listen! I know something about
banking. Been studying it for years. When it comes to war the banker
has to chalk-line every foot of the lot. They can't do anything without
him. They can't have an army or a navy or any international teamwork.
You'll see. The minute war is declared, _before_ war is declared, the
President'll be sending for your father to talk over ways and means.
Now then, are you to put a spoke in the country's wheel? You can.
You're doing it. The more you worry him the less good he'll be. Get
chucked out of college, as you would have been in a day or two, if I
hadn't stepped in, and begged to have you put in my charge--"
Once more Tad revolted. "Put in your charge! The devil I'll be put in
your charge!"
"All right! It's the one condition on which you stay at Harvard. Jump
your bail, and you'll see your father pay for it. He'll have his big
international job, and he won't be able to swing it because he'll be
thinking of you. You'll see the whole country pay for it. I daresay we
shan't know where we pay and how we pay; but we'll be paying. Say, is
it worth your while? What do you gain by being the rotten spot in the
beam that may bring the whole shack about our ears? Everybody knows
that your father has lost one son. Can't you try to give him another of
whom he won't have to be ashamed?"
Tad stood sulkily, his hands in his trousers' pockets, as he tipped on
his toes and reflected. Since he made no answer, Tom went on with his
appeal.
"And that's not the only thing. There's yourself. You're not a bad
sort. You've got the makings of a decent chap, even if you aren't one.
You could be one easily enough. All you've got to do is to drop some of
your fool acquaintances, cut out drinking, cut out women, and make a
show of doing what you've been sent to Harvard to do, even if it's only
a show. You won't have to keep it up for more than a few weeks."
The furrow in the forehead when the eyebrows were lifted was also a
mark of dissipation. "More than a few weeks? Why not?"
Tom pounded with emphasis. "Because, I tell you, we'll be in the war.
_You'll_ be in the war. We fellows of the class of 1919 are not going
to walk up on Commencement Day and take our degrees. We'll get them
before that. We'll get them in batteries and trenches and graves. I
heard a girl say, in speaking of you a day or two ago, that she hoped,
when the time came for that, you'd be fit. She said she liked the
word--fit for the job that'd be given you. You couldn't be fit if you
went on--"