Now, we were just
discussing the war. What sort of a prophet are you, Tommy? How long will
it last? Sophie was wondering if it would be over before all the
eligible young men depart across the sea."
"Well," Tommy grinned cheerfully, "I'm no prophet. Not being in the
confidence of the Allied command, I can't say. I'd hazard a guess,
though, that there'll be plenty of good men left for Sophie to make a
choice among. I can pass on another man's prophecy, though. Had a letter
from one of my brothers yesterday. He was at Mons, got pinked in the
leg, and is now training Territorials. He is sure the grand finale will
come about midsummer next. The way he put it sounds logical. Neither
side can make headway this winter. Germany has made her maximum effort.
If she couldn't beat us when she took the field equipped to the last
button she never can. By spring we'll be organized. France and England
on the west front. The Russian steam roller on the east. The fleet
maintaining the blockade. They can't stand the pressure. It isn't
possible. The Hun--confound him--will blow up with a loud bang about
next July. That's Ned's say-so, and these line officers are pretty
conservative as a rule. War's their business, and they don't nurse
illusions about it.
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