"What?"
"He's sending over Meadows, HIS OWN MAN!"
There was no need to comment on it. The cool courage of
the thing spoke for itself. Meadows,--Spugg's own man,--his
house valet, without whom he never travelled twenty miles!
"What else was there to do?" said Mr. Spugg when I asked
him if it was true that Meadows was going. "I take no
credit for sending Meadows nor, for the matter of that,
for anything that Meadows may do over there. It was a
simple matter of duty. My son and I had him into the
dining room last night after dinner. 'Meadows,' we said,
'Henry and William are caught. Our man power at the front
has got to be kept up. There's no one left but ourselves
and you. There's no way out of it. You'll have to go.'"
"But how," I protested, "can you get along with Meadows,
your valet, gone? You'll be lost!"
"We must do the best we can. We've talked it all over.
My son will help me dress and I will help him. We can
manage, no doubt."
So Meadows went.
After this Mr. Spugg, dressed as best he could manage
it, and taking turns with his son in driving his own
motor, was a pathetic but uncomplaining object.
Meadows meantime was reported as with the heavy artillery,
doing well.
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