When the war broke out and Big Ben had boomed the hour which marked the
rejection of the ultimatum, Bates was full of fire. He had bought a
penny flag, and in a spirit of grim determination had walked the
streets, processing with the processionists. There was no brag or bounce
about him, no hideousness of noise or mafficking, no hatred of
foreigners or cruelty of uncharity, but a grim steadfastness of
determination which meant that, so far as he might, Bates would do or
die.
He returned to his third-floor back in St. Pancras, and, lighting his
lamp and a candle to ensure as much illumination as possible, looked
with brooding earnestness at his reflection in the worn uncertain
looking-glass.... He began to realise the truth of things. The flag was
in his button-hole, his eye had a glint of lingering excitement, his
brain was ruffled; he saw himself as he was. England must fight,
Englishmen must help, for England could not fail. On her rested the
truest and noblest concerns of humanity.
Bates removed his coat. He was five-foot two; his chest measurement was
less than proportionate to his height. His muscles, so far as they
existed, were flabby. He moved his arms to exercise their powers; then,
realising his weariness, went slowly to bed. Bates was a little tiny
man, but his heart was large.
He was restless throughout the night, rose but little refreshed, and
breakfasted badly. He went forth to his labours--he was a ledger-clerk
in some Stores--feeling greatly depressed. Gradually, however, that
sense of oppression passed. The world was full of sunshine, and, though
the faces of the passers-by were anxious and unsmiling, there was no
despondency about them. Where no despondency is, there surely is hope.
Bates began to feel hopeful. The sight of a Territorial with a kitbag
completed his recovery. He strode out with an unusual vigour, squared
his poor chest, swung his arms, and whistled softly to himself the
chorus of some piece of music-hall patriotism--
"They can't build boys of the bull-dog breed!"
By the time he reached the office--well before the hour--he was a
pugnacious and confident patriot for all his scarcity of feet and
inches.
The days that followed were full of emotions and excitements. Three of
Bates's colleagues went the Khaki way, and every hour brought some
discussion of international problems. The counting-house thrilled with
arguments of high strategy. What KITCHENER should do, and where CHARLIE
BERESFORD should be sent, were questions confidently settled. Bates,
whose want of stature made him too insignificant to speak with
confidence in these discussions, held his peace, but listened with both
ears. What was the good of this talk? It was incumbent on Englishmen to
do.
That night he was one of a multitude who stood at the entrance of the
local drill-hall hoping to become Territorials. He rather expected to be
chaffed for his pains, but, though there was plenty of jollity among
those waiting, there was no unkindness; and at last, thanks to squeezing
and patience, he was able to get within the charmed gate. So far and no
farther; not so far even as to the medical officer. A watchful sergeant
grasped him by the shoulder, and, smiling with earnest eyes, said:
"It's no use wasting your time here, young fellow-my-lad! You'd better
shave your upper lip and apply to the Boy Scouts."
Bates turned on his heel and, sick at heart, went out by a side door. He
was angry with himself, at his inadequate inches. What could he do for
England? He was deeply grieved at his uselessness. He crept up to his
room and sat in the darkness, brooding.
His spirits were low for some days, and the sight of regiments marching,
of soldiers with their friends, of placards telling the truth and the
not-so-truthful, made him feel very futile. He spent hours of every
evening wandering through the streets, watching the lighted windows of
Buckingham Palace, gazing at the policemen who guarded Downing Street.
He wanted to do so much for England, yet he must stand and wait. He had
left the mimic flag in his pin-cushion at home; he was in no mood for
wearing it now.
Then an idea came to him. His spirits rose, his eyes brightened; he
walked again with something of a martial swing, and whistled to himself
softly and inoffensively that even a neighbour might not have heard.
Bates had found his way. He too could serve England. He sacrificed all
but his bare necessities, and grew actually thinner and even less
obtrusive. His outer insignificance shrank, but inwardly he was as happy
as a warrior. Every week a postal order went to this relief-fund or to
that. It was regularly acknowledged to "One of the Bull-dog Breed."
Bates wears his flag boldly and is confident that we shall win.
* * * * *
Old Proverbs re-made in Germany.