After all, it's war time."
"What branch of the service are you putting your chauffeur
in?" I asked.
"I'm not sure," he answered. "I think I'll send him up
in the air. It's dangerous, of course, but it's no time
to think about that."
So, in due time, Mr. Spugg's chauffeur, Henry, went
overseas. He was reported first as in England. Next he
was right at the front, at the very firing itself. We
knew then,--everybody in the club knew that Mr. Spugg's
chauffeur might be killed at any moment. But great as
the strain must have been, Spugg went up and down to his
office and in and out of the club without a tremor. The
situation gave him a new importance in our eyes, something
tense.
"This seems to be a terrific business," I said to him
one day at lunch, "this new German drive."
"My chauffeur," said Mr. Spugg, "was right in the middle
of it."
"He was, eh?"
"Yes," he continued, "one shell burst in the air so near
him it almost broke his wings."
Mr. Spugg told this with no false boasting or bravado,
eating his celery as he spoke of it. Here was a man who
had nearly had his chauffeur's wings blown off and yet
he never moved a muscle. I began to realize the kind of
resolute stuff that the man was made of.
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