THE LAST KINDNESS A WAR-STORY.
The Ypres Times.
159
By FRANK HARRIS.
In the early days of the War two men were walking casually along the streets .J
Boulogne towards the jetty, evidently to meet the Folkestone mail boat.
Boulogne had already assumed the aspect of an English town containing a few French
inhabitants. Khaki was the prevailing colour, rain the most familiar element. All the
larger hotels had been converted to military service, and the usual atmosphere of an
important war-base prevailed.
Our two. friends, both clad in khaki, the one an army chaplain and the other a
lieutenant in the Welsh Fusiliers, did not therefore arouse even a passing interest. They
were deep in argument. One, the lieutenant, a small wiry man of about thirty, with clear
eyes of steel and a bulging, prominent forehead, did most of the talking, and emphasised
his words with forcible and impatient gestures. He possessed the gift of concentration.
He neither saw nor cared what went on around him his mind was occupied to the exclu
sion of everything else with the subject under discussion. His companion, on the other
hand, said very little. He often shook his head, and sometimes smiled tolerantly. He
did not agree with what his friend was saying, but listened patiently all the time. Also
about thirty years old, he wore his uniform with a certain dapper air, as if he preferred
the military tunic to the surplice. His good-humoured Irish eyes looked all about him,
missing nothing.
I do not agree with a word you sar-," he said at length "that, of course, you know
already. I am not good at argument, though perhaps I ought to be. Still I hope, con
fidently, that you will see your mistake now that we are about to come to grips with life,
so to speak. These things are better realised in times of danger. But come along, you
stand still so often that we shall miss your brother."
The lieutenant walked on for a few yards in silence. The son of a Belfast solicitor,
he had been brought up a strict Presbyterian, but on reaching the years, misnamedof
discretion, with his lawyer's mind, he had refused to admit the supernaturalhe had
carefully weighed the Christian faith, studied its proofs, and the arguments against it,
the benefits and disadvantages it had brought in its train, weighed it all carefully, and
found it wanting. He therefore rejected it root and branch. We may be sorry for him
and his like we do not blame them belief is not a matter of will. But John Milligan
did not stop at disbelief. He insisted on discussing ticklish questions at all times and on
all occasions, appropriate or inappropriate, whenever he found himself with a disputant.
He had the aggressive persistence of the disbeliever with none of the usual Celtic tact.
It is not surprising that he was not popular in his regiment. Englishmen don't talk much
about religion, but they usually cherish some faith, and they resent attacks on it pro
foundly. The padre was the only man in the regiment who could stand Milligan's
conversation for long.
Do you mean to say," Milligan persisted, that on account of some obscure and
unnatural or supernatural precept of your religion you would refuse to a fellow creature
a simple kindness that you would not deny to any dog or cat or horse
The chaplain looked at him inquiringly. Of course, if an animal, a dog, a cat or
a horse, as you say, were so wounded that there was not the least hope of his recovering,
vet if allowed to live he might linger on for days in agony, any man would put the poor
brute out of his suffering in some painless way."
Naturally," replied the lieutenant. Yet you would not do as much for a human
being
