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One morning he was called from class to the office of the headmaster, Mr. Scott. This gentleman was tall and gray-haired, firm but kind in manner. With him were two severe-looking gentlemen whose clothes made them known as persons of importance. One was large and heavy, with scanty hair, and was introduced as Mr. Tarbell; Lanny learned afterwards that he was an important banker from the state capital, chairman of the board of trustees of the school. The other was a young businessman of the keen, go-getter type, an official in one of the big insurance companies. Mr. Pettyman was his name, and he also was a trustee.

Lanny was quickly made aware that this was a grave occasion. They had come, said the headmaster, to make inquiries about Mr. Baldwin, concerning whom certain reports were being circulated they wished Lanny to tell them all he knew about this master.

The request brought the blood to Lanny's cheeks. "Mr. Baldwin is a gentleman of the very highest type," he said, quickly. "He has been most kind to me, and has given me a great deal of help."

"I am pleased to hear you say that," replied the headmaster. "Is there anything you could report that would do him harm?"

"I'm quite sure there is not, sir."

"Then I know you will be glad to answer any questions these gentlemen may ask you."

Lanny wasn't exactly glad, but he realized at once that if he hesitated, or seemed to be lacking in frankness, it would be taken as counting against his friend.

Mr. Tarbell, the banker, spoke in a slow and heavy voice. "It is being reported that Mr. Baldwin has talked in a way to indicate that he is out of sympathy with the war. Has he said anything of the sort to you?"

"Do you mean privately, or in class?"

"I mean either."

"In class I have never heard him mention the war. Privately he has sometimes agreed with things I have said to him."

"What have you said to him?"

"I have said it's a war for profits, and that for this reason I find it hard to give it any support."

"What reason can you have for saying that it's a war for profits?"

"I have seen the evidence, sir."

"Indeed! Who has shown it to you?"

"My father, for one."

The banker from Hartford appeared taken aback. "Your father has said that in so many words?"

"He has said it a hundred times. He wrote it to me continually while I was living in France. He warned me on no account to let myself forget that it's a war to protect big French and British interests, and that many of them are trading with the enemy, and protecting their own properties to the injury of their country."

"Ahem!" said Mr. Tarbell. Words seemed to have failed him.

"And what is more," persisted Lanny, "Zaharoff admitted as much in my presence."

"Who is Zaharoff?"

It was Lanny's turn to be surprised. "Zaharoff is the richest man in the world, sir."

"Indeed! Is he richer than Rockefeller?"

"He controls most of the armament plants of Europe, and my father says this war has made him the richest man in the world. Now he is keen for the war to continue - 'jusqu'аи bout,' he said. My father had a letter from Lord Riddell the other day, saying that was Zaharoff's phrase."

"And this man admits that his motive is profits?"

"Not in those words, sir, but it was the clear sense of many things he said."

"You know him personally, you mean?"

"I was in his home in Paris last March, with my father, and they talked about the war a great deal, as businessmen and makers of munitions."

X

The banker dropped the embarrassing subject of a war for profits. He said it had been reported that Mr. Baldwin had attended a social gathering in Sand Hill, at which there had been a great deal of Bolshevik talk by a notorious preacher named Smathers. Had Lanny been there? Lanny said he had been at Mrs. Riccardi's, if that was the place that was meant. He had heard no such talk; he had come away thinking that the Reverend Mr. Smathers was a saint, which was something different from a Bolshevik, as he understood it.

"But didn't he criticize Budd Gunmakers Corporation and its conduct of the strike?"

"He told what had happened - but only after I had asked him to."

"Do you accept what he told you?"

"I have in mind to ask my father about it, but I haven't seen him since that time."

"Did Mr. Baldwin take any part in that conversation?" "I don't recall that he did. I think he listened, like most of the others."

"And did he say anything to you about it afterwards?" "No, sir. He was probably afraid of embarrassing me." "Did he know that Mr. Smathers was to be there?" "I have no idea about that, sir. I was invited by Mrs. Riccardi, and I didn't know who else was coming."

"There were other pupils of St. Thomas's present?" "Yes, sir." "Who were they?"

Lanny hesitated. "I would rather not say anything about my fellow-pupils, sir. I have said that I would tell you about Mr. Baldwin." The young go-getter, Mr. Pettyman, took up the questioning. He wanted to know about the master's ideas, and what was the basis of Lanny's intimacy with him. Lanny replied that Mr. Baldwin was a lover of poetry, and had written some fine verses, and had given them to Lanny to read. He had lent him books. What books? Lanny named a volume of Santayana. It was a foreign-sounding name, and evidently Mr. Pettyman hadn't heard of it, so Lanny mentioned that the writer had been a professor of philosophy at Harvard.

In a kind and fatherly way the banker reminded the impetuous lad that the nation was at war. "Our boys are going overseas to die in a cause which may not be perfect - but how often do you meet absolute perfection in this world? There has never been a war in which some persons didn't profiteer at the expense of the government. The same thing happened in the Civil War, but that didn't keep it from being a war to preserve the Union."

"I know," said Lanny. "My father has told me about that also. He says that was how J. P. Morgan made the start of his fortune by selling condemned rifles to the Union government."

So ended the questioning of Lanny Budd. He didn't realize what an awful thing he had said until later, when he told his father about it, and Robbie manifested surprise mixed with amusement. Mr. Tarell's great bank was known as a "Morgan bank," and the House of Morgan was just then the apex of dignity and power in the financial world - it was handling the purchases of the Allied governments, expending about three thousand million dollars of their money in the United States!

22

Above the Battle

I

LANNY came home for Christmas. The war was not allowed to interfere with this festival; a big tree was set up in the home, and elaborate decorations were hung. Everybody spent a lot of time thinking what presents to give to relatives who obviously didn't need anything. Lanny, a stranger, sought the advice of his stepmother, and they went to the town's largest bookstore and tried to guess what sort of book each person might care for. By this method the well-to-do got reading matter enough to occupy their time for the rest of the year.

Lanny remembered his Christmas at Schloss Stubendorf, where people ate enormously, but were frugal in other spending. Here in New England it was the other way around - it wasn't quite good form to stuff your stomach, but Yankee ingenuity had been expended in devising toys to please the children of the rich, and adults were swamped under a flood of goods incredibly perfect in workmanship. On Christmas morning the base of the tree was piled with packages wrapped in multicolored paper and tied with ribbons. Pipes and cigars, bedroom slippers, silk dressing gowns, neckties - these were standard for the men - while ladies received jewels, wristwatches, silk stockings, veils and scarves, handbags and vanity cases, elaborately decorated boxes of chocolates and candied fruits - everyone had such quantities of these things that it was rather a bore opening parcels, and you could read in their faces the thought: "What on earth am I going to do with all this?"

Robert junior and Percy were two friendly and quite normal boys, living rather repressed lives at home. Esther considered all forms of extravagance as bad taste, and tried to teach this to her children; but she was fighting the current of her time, in which everything grew more elaborate and expensive, and a vast propaganda for spending was maintained by thousands of interested agencies. Here came this flood of goods, bearing the cards of uncles and aunts and cousins and school friends and even employees; the boys became surfeited, and couldn't really appreciate anything.

Lanny had his share of goods and of bewilderment. Good heavens, three sweaters - when already he had several hanging in his clothes closet! More neckties, more handkerchiefs, more hair brushes; an alligator-skin belt that was too heavy for comfort; newly published books that some clerk in a store had said would appeal to a youth. And in the midst of all that superfluity, a gift from Great-Great-Uncle Eli - a much worn copy of Thoreau's Walden, appearing as misplaced as its author would have been in this fashionable company. Henry David Thoreau, telling you how to live in a hut on a diet of cornmeal mush and beans, in order to have your spirit free and your time not in pawn to commercialism! Old New England and new New England met in the Budd family drawing room, and neither was much interested in the other.

II

Lanny had sent his great-great-uncle the handsomest book he could find in the local store, a "de luxe" copy of Don Quixote with the Dore illustrations. There came now an invitation to spend a week-end with the old gentleman, and to bring Bess along. Esther wasn't entirely pleased by the intimacy between her daughter and her stepson, but Lanny promised to drive very, very carefully on the snow-covered roads, and Bess was so thrilled and Robbie so pleased that the mother couldn't forbid the visit.

Between Lanny and his stepmother lay a temperamental gulf that nothing could ever bridge. Lanny was guided by his love of beauty, whereas Esther had to think carefully about everything she felt or did, and bring it into conformity with rigid standards. A few times in the afternoon she had come in to find her stepson playing the piano in a loud and extravagant manner, completely absorbed in it; Esther had stood and listened, uneasy in her mind. She had never heard such music, at least not in a drawing room, and to her it was disorderly and unwholesome. Impossible to believe that anyone could let himself go like that and not sooner or later misbehave in other ways.

Bess with her excitability had been something of a "problem child" to her mother; and now came this youth from abroad to stimulate that tendency. Bess would listen to his playing with a rapt expression, as if transported to some strange land where her mother had never been. Bess wanted to play like Lanny, she wanted to dance like him - and wear a one-piece bathing suit in a drawing room whОle doing it! She chattered about the places her romantic half-brother had visited, the people he had met, the sights he had seen, the stories he told her. Books on child training which Esther conscientiously read all agreed that you shouldn't be saying "Don't! Don't" - and so Esther didn't. But uneasiness troubled her heart.

On that lovely winter ride, snugly wrapped in fur robes, Lanny told the child about the wonderful old gentleman she was going to meet. Great-Great-Uncle Eli had once helped slaves to escape; his friend Thoreau had gone to jail for refusing to pay taxes to a slave-catching government, and when the poet Emerson had come and asked: "Henry, what are you doing here?" Henry had answered: "Waldo, what are you doing out of here?" Some of them had gone to live in a colony called Brook Farm, in order to be independent and have more wholesome lives. "What is a colony?" demanded Bess; and then: "Oh, what fun! Are there any colonies now? Could we go and live in one, do you suppose?"

These two reincarnations of New England idealism arrived in the village of Norton in the proper mood to appreciate their venerable relative. The sweet little Quaker wife and the spinster daughter made them at home, and Bess sat for hours at the old man's feet. She couldn't understand all his long words, but she knew that what he said was good. When the two young people drove home again they had this new bond between them, as if some ancient prophet had anointed them with holy oil.

III

The last winter of the war was the darkest and most dreadful. For three years and a half all the ingenuities of man and the resources of science had been devoted to the ends of destruction. Both sides now had many kinds of poison gases: some which penetrated the clothing and tormented the skin, some which destroyed the lungs, some which blinded men, or made them vomit unceasingly. These gases were put into shells, and whole battlefronts were drenched with them. The Germans had flame throwers, which killed the man who used them as well as those in front. The British and French had tanks, "big Willies" and "little Willies," which advanced in front of the troops, spitting fire and death.

The poet's vision had come to reality, and there rained a ghastly dew from the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue. Squadrons of swift righting craft darted here and there; they swooped from the clouds and machine-gunned the marching troops; they raided behind the lines and dropped bombs upon railroads and ammunition dumps. The Zepps were fought with explosive bullets, and so great was the peril that the crews of two vessels destroyed them at home in order to avoid going out in them.

Everything had become bigger and more deadly than ever before. The Germans constructed enormous siege guns, known as "Big Berthas," and set them up in a forest behind Laon, and were firing shells into Paris from a distance of seventy-five miles. At first people had refused to believe such a thing possible; but now they were being fired every twenty minutes, and on Good Friday one of their shells struck a church and killed and wounded nearly two hundred persons, many of them women and children.

For the U-boats there were depth bombs, and nets across all the principal harbors and channels. The Americans were furnishing seventy thousand mines, which were being laid in a chain across the northern entrance to the North Sea, from the Orkney Islands to the coast of Norway, a distance of nearly three hundred miles. That made one for every twenty feet. Also the British had devised the "Q-boats" - old tramp steamers with concealed armor sent out to wander in the danger zones. A submarine would rise and open fire with shells - for they tried to save their torpedoes for bigger craft. Some of the men of the "Q-boat," the "panic-crew," would take to the boats; the "sub" would come closer to complete her job - and suddenly portions of the steamer sides would drop down, disclosing six-inch guns which would open deadly fire.

America was getting ready, upon a scale and with a speed never before known in history. You could feel the spirit of the country hardening in the face of world-wide danger. People talked about the war to the exclusion of everything else; even at St. Thomas's, even at the "bull sessions," the fellows discussed what was going on, and what part they hoped to have in it. The draft age was twenty-one, but you could volunteer younger, and now and then some upper classman would pack up his belongings and move to an officers' training camp.