March cleared the snow from the hills. Already, the leafless trees seemed hinting of springtime; already Patricia’s crocuses made an orange carpet under the walnut-tree. But Peter Jameson was not thinking of crocuses. As leave-time grew shorter, so thoughts turned more and more to the Brigade. Sandiland, now a Major, wrote a long gossipy letter. Could Peter get back to Beer Battery? Had Peter heard about the new Army Artillery Brigades, about six-gun batteries? Had Peter seen Lodden? Of course, the show wasn’t what it used to be—still, some of the old gang were carrying on. Conway would be glad of a sixth for poker. Charlie Henry had got his second pip. Merrilees sent his kind regards. Purves was home—Sandiland didn’t think he’d come out again. The “Brat” was acting Adjutant. Mr. Black had been given a commission. “And R.,” the letter concluded, “is playing up for a Brigadiership. He’ll get it too.”

The war had seemed a thousand miles from Sunflowers, but Sandiland’s blurred handwriting brought it back with a rush. Pictures—Heron Baynet had taught his son-in-law all about brain-pictures—formed themselves in Peter’s mind. He saw war again, the whole nauseating fascinating panorama of war. Did he want to go back to it? “Not much!” said our Mr. Jameson.

But would he go back? Would he have to go back? If he went back, would he be able to stick it? These questions perturbed Peter; and he began testing himself, overhauling the machinery of his mind. Deliberately, he conjured up the worst of his “out there” experiences; saw them clear-pictured at their limit of horror.

The process strained his new will-power very nearly to breaking-point. Twice,—after particularly terrible visions—he abandoned hope. The old reproach of “coward” formulated itself in his brain.

Then he began to make excuses for himself: “It was absurd to go back. Unpatriotic. Unfair to the men. His nerve might give out in a crisis. He might panic; make some ghastly mistake, involving not only his own honour but the lives of others.” ... This last thought nauseated him; and finally he defeated it.

His physical condition, curiously enough, the man omitted to consider.

“I’ll go back,” said P.J., “be damned if I won’t go back. Self-respect demands it of me. What would happen to the country if everybody who had the slightest excuse stopped at home!”

He began to think about the country, not nebulously but as Something Definite. There were only two classes of people in any country—Citizens and Parasites. The Citizen lived for the country; the Parasite lived on the country. In time of War, the able-bodied citizen had one clear duty—to fight. And he must fight to his last gasp. Any other argument was pure eye-wash.

Peter figured the problem out in his favourite rowing-terms. You had to pull your own weight in the boat. If you didn’t, you became a “passenger.” Racing-eights couldn’t afford “passengers.” And you had to “pull your own weight” from pistol-crack to winning-post. Otherwise, you—not the other seven oarsmen and the cox but you, you yourself—lost the race; but you didn’t lose it for yourself, you lost it for the School.

He tried to get round this by arguing: “But we can’t all be in the Eight. The Eight is a picked body. Besides somebody has to make the boat, the oars: otherwise one couldn’t row at all.”

“Specious!” decided our Mr. Jameson, “very specious. But it doesn’t apply to me. I’m in the Eight—a picked man. I’m trained to row—not to make oars. This is my privilege. If I throw it away—if I refuse to row....” And he thought of Pat’s brother-in-law, Sir Hubert Rawlings, tricked out in “colours” he had not earned, running along the tow-path, barking encouragement to the rowers.

“Swine,” said Peter—and this time he spoke aloud.

His mind was made up: he would finish the course.