became, as M. Clemenceau expressed it to me some ten years ago, a bourgeois class. They accepted, that is to say, the whole scheme of wagedom, capitalism, and profiteering as a permanent social system. Their hope of emancipation before 1848 had lain in some sort of return to preindustrial conditions; from 1848 to 1914 they aspired, not to uplift the whole disinherited class (practically ninety per cent of the entire people), but to become members, as individuals, of the section that existed by trading upon differences of value. Not even the spread of the great Coöperative movement, or the continuous Socialist agitation from the beginning of 1881, or even the affiliation of the Labor Party to the International Socialist Party, and the voting strength displayed at the elections of 1906, could turn the tide in favor of Socialist ideas.

At the beginning of the war in 1914, the general aspect of affairs was much the same as it had been for the previous generation. True, on the one hand, working-class combinations had grown far more numerous and formidable. True, also, on the other, that the combinations of vast capitalist enterprises had utterly refuted the old theories of individual competition as the salvation of society and the cause of all progress. True, lastly, that state interference had greatly increased. But neither the working classes nor the dominant profiteering and landlord classes understood how far this unconscious reintegration of industrial anarchy had gone. Still less did either side. comprehend that capitalism as a system had reached its culminating point, was already tottering to its fall, and would prove itself wholly incapable of dealing with a great national emergency. To-day, the entire community has learned these

facts-through the agency of the war. State control, however partially, incompetently, and reluctantly administered, is replacing individual competition in every important branch of our national life.

The history of this latest phase of social evolution has been much the same in the various countries which have attained to a similar stage of the industrial evolution. The United States of America, notwithstanding the enormous and fruitful territory it has had to colonize, in spite also of the fact that not less than half its population of 110,000,000 is still directly connected with the cultivation of the soil, has, in not a few directions, run ahead of the old world. Nowhere has capital organized itself with such marvelous capacity for rapid improvement of processes and the determination to scrap' all but the most perfect means of extracting ores, of dealing with and distributing agricultural products, manufacturing on a large scale, standardizing its appliances and products in order to save labor and cheapen selling values; while at the same time trusts and combines on an unprecedented scale have made use of the vast power acquired by common action to crush competition and to uphold prices. On the other side of the Atlantic, also, as on this, the laboring class has endeavored to meet the relentless force of organized capital by combinations of its own. Threats uttered by the railway men to hold up the entire trade of the country practically forced Mr. Wilson to use the great Federal power with which he is invested on behalf of the men, in order to secure for the workers in that department an eight-hour day by direct state action.

It is obvious that this is only a beginning. No great nation could

overdose every time. At all events the theory has worked to my satisfaction. However . . . !

Its sole disadvantage, in practice, is that it leads to misconceptions. On the other hand, a misconception of this nature led to my acquaintanceship with Private Robinson. For Private Robinson, greeting, as he justifiably supposed, a fellow martyr, cast an eye upon me as we each stood toweling, and observed You seem to have near got quit of it, Mate. But it's hell, ain't it, while it lasts. What I say is—and I bet you say the same instead of this here damn Itch, give me lice all the time, any number of 'em.'

The fruits of human experience are always worth making a note of, and I made a note of Private Robinson's preference accordingly, and, explaining my own lack of familiarity with the alternatives to which he had made allusion, I gave him, in fair exchange for his information, my own observations of, and deductions from, the state of affairs at Davos Platz. I find such barterings not unprofitable. Certainly in masculine society much excellent conversation consists in the simple process of 'comparing notes.' One man tells the company about the steak they gave him at Valparaiso and another caps it with the story of the ham and eggs eaten at 2 A.M. with the cabbies in the Junior Turf. One man tells of Geishas in Japan and another of a conductorette on the No. 77 'bus route. Thus are pearls of knowledge added to our collection. I find that if I wish to hear about the wonders of the greatest event in history, from men who have taken part in it, I must contribute to the chat by a few remarks on some event which I have witnessed, such as a Charlie Chaplin film, or a Chelsea Models' dance, or a Madrid bullfight,

or a baseball match in New York, or an Arab doing the Pyramids record in seven minutes. Even so was it with Private Robinson. For my Davos Platz he swapped his Ypres. I blush for the unfairness of the bargain. My paltry tittle-tattle about an invalids' and hypochondriacs' retreat, and his narrative of a scene drenched in the blood of heroes! However . . . !

He

Private Robinson, in the music-hall bar, professed himself adjectivally glad to see a friend. This adjectival place had got on his nerves. wanted some one to talk to: a tactless remark, for it was obvious that he had been talking to the barmaid. But I am afraid that barmaids are accustomed to tactlessness; accustomed, by the same token, to their feminine conversational charms failing utterly to compete with masculine. It is a common thing, in a saloon, to see a man who has been immersed in deep and apparently enjoyable chat with the barmaid abandon her the moment the entry of a man acquaintance provides him with a man listener. Nearly all men like talking to men, whereas only a few men like talking to women; and if one may substitute the phrase 'talking with' for 'talking to' it would almost be safe to assert that, except when the strongest sex interest prevails, all men prefer talking with men to talking with women. Such men as Private Robinson certainly do. It might be said that they never talk with women: they only indulge in badinage, condescending or respectful as the case may be. Upon the moral of which (if it enshrines any) I make no comment. I simply record the fact that the barmaid was left smiling her mechanical smile, patting her back hair, and surveying rows of 'minerals,' while Private Robinson buttonholed me and conversed.

He conversed of many things, some printable and some otherwise. He had been to the Front again, been wounded, and was soon to return. Life at the Front displeased him; but he did not dwell on his displeasure; he took it for granted that I would take it for granted his views were only those which are held by every soldier and which only flame forth when Mr. Catchpenny, who has had a week's guarded joy ride behind the lines, writes a patriotic article on the theme of how our brave lads go into battle with a song on their lips and merry eyes which mock at danger: I have heard extracts from such an article read out in a Troops on Leave 3d class compartment; and . . . However . . . !

Private Robinson was not reticent. But I should be misrepresenting him if I hinted that he held strong opinions. He held none at all. He dealt in experiences, not in opinions. He assumed that everybody wanted the war to end: that was plain : having glanced at the assumption he simply went on to the anecdotage which is the basis of all masculine comparing-of-notes. He told me about the Push in which he had been wounded. He told me about the English hospital in which he had been healed. The 'grub,' I was given to understand, had been good. Also there was an old lady, a visitor, who had come bearing gifts and had invited him to her home. He had stayed a week, after his discharge, and it had been an enjoyable week, the old lady's idea of entertainment being to provide plenty of buttered toast, and bloaters for breakfast. Theatres? Pretty girls to tea? Motor drives? Not a bit of it. Just food; and the kindly company of the old lady, who sat on one side of the hearth and knitted while Private Robinson

digested and smoked on the other: such was the enjoyable week. Vainly do the pretty girls ('some birds!') compete, with their chatter, against the charm of such a programme. How well I know that nice old lady! I too have seen her, in the hospital with which I am acquainted. Her methods are a mystery to me, as they are to the birds.' I do not know how, exactly, she casts a spell over the Private Robinsons; certainly it is not by lavishing luxuries upon them: she is generally a denizen of a little forty-five-pound-a-year villa, which may be cozy but cannot contain temptations for the luxurious. Nevertheless her guests (of which there is a continual sequence) one and all call her blessed, faithfully correspond with her after their departure, andwell-'some birds' are out of the running when she aspires to act the hostess to an attractive wounded soldier alone in London. Did I say 'London'? Substitute the name of any town which owns a war hospital. There is always the same old lady to love and be loved by the same old Private Robinsons. Alas, poor 'birds'!

Now it came to pass that Private Robinson, having talked for threequarters of an hour on subjects as various as buttered toast and gangrene, let fall, en passant, a tale which seems worth repetition. It appears that during the first stage of the Push in which he was eventually wounded he and his fellows advanced to, and took, a portion of German trench and certain German dugouts. No sooner had they done so than a terrible barrage began to fall all around them. It was a British barrage -for our Robinsons, in their haste, sometimes enter the zone of their own barrage. So tremendous was the hail of shells that it seemed impossible for any creature to live in the midst of it.

The noise was indescribable, maddening. Robinson and his fellows, cowering in the shelter of the newly won dugouts, could scarcely hear themselves speak, and peered forth on to an inferno of explosive earth, mud, débris: a lunatic realm which banged and banged and banged, and spouted death.

Behold, twenty or thirty yards from their dugout, there was a German soldier, running to and fro, dodging hither and thither as though to escape the missiles which deluged on every hand. His face was frantic with terror. He had lost all sense of direction: he had, in fact, lost his reason. 'Balmy, the poor blighter was,' said Private Robinson. 'It

gave you the pip to watch him.' However, the Englishmen continued, fascinated, to watch the German. And the latter, bewildered, continued to stumble blindly to and fro, in anguish, but miraculously uninjured. Now it is clear that the sole object of the presence of Private Robinson and his comrades at that particular spot was to kill (among other people) that particular German. The sole object of the hundreds or thousands of tons of metal being sprayed on to that particular spot was to kill (among other people) that particular German. However . . . !

What happened was this. Two of Private Robinson's mates, unable to endure the sight of the German's torture, crawled forth, at the utmost peril to themselves, managed to catch their foe, and drag him into shelter and safety. There they soothed him with a cigarette. His gibberings lessened. He became calm. Having wept a little he thanked his rescuers. Then the barrage moved forward. And that is where the story ends. Private Robinson et Cie. thereafter had other things to attend to, and

what befell Fritz-whether he became a prisoner or whether he went forth to fight, and perchance still survives -not one of them knows. 'Not a bad little chap,' said Private Robinson. And my word, he had got the wind up. Cruel to see, it was.'

He did not add that logic is at a discount on the battlefield; for his conduct towards the other Germans encountered that day had been, as far as one could gather, quite properly ferocious. 'Dirty swine, I call 'em.' Far be it from me to ask him why, if so, valuable English lives had been risked to save one from the fate which a score of expensive English guns were toiling to bring about. There would be very little human nature, and therefore very few queer stories, if there were no such thing as inconsistency in the world.

Now I come to think of it, I declare that the best stories I have ever heard are those of which the narrator himself fails to see the point. For then, even if the story is not true, the story of the story's telling has an adequate truth, and becomes the story itself. Not that the story which I am about to place on record is untrue. It is true, as the story of Private Robinson is true. Goodness knows that there is small need to invent episodes in this war. One's only difficulty is to pick out the episodes which are not too impossible to be dismissed (by the stay-at-homes) as scandalously manufactured fiction. At all events, the tribulations of Private Brown are not manufactured (his wooden leg is, to put it mildly, a piece of circumstantial evidence in their favor; for he certainly did not march in the Expeditionary Force with a wooden leg, and he came back from Germany lacking a limb); and the wording of the tale as I heard it from