“Give us a bit of bacon, then, fathead,” the third one asks with a certain gentleness.

The fourth man returns, “Crikey, I could do with a smoke. Hasn’t anybody got a—?”

“Let’s clear off, boys,” urges the fifth. “We’re not going to have any more of it.”

“I’ll give you a cigarette,” says the sixth, “but you’ll have to give me a bit of bread.”

“We’re going home, boys . . . think of it . . . home,” the seventh one cries.

“Is your old woman expecting you?” the eighth man asks.

“My God, it’s six years since I slept in a proper bed,” sighs the ninth.

“What a mug’s game it was, lads!” says the tenth man, spitting disgustedly.

“It was that!” the eleventh replies, “but we’ve done with it now.”

“We’ve done with it,” repeats the twelfth man. “We’re not such fools. Let’s go home, mates!”

“Oh, but I’m glad it’s all over,” concludes the thirteenth, turning over to lie on the other side.

And such, one can well imagine, was the end of the Greatest War.

XXX. The End of Everything

CHAPTER XXX

THE END OF EVERYTHING

MANY years went by. Brych the stoker, now the proprietor of a locksmith’s business, was sitting in the Damohorsky tavern, reading a copy of the People’s Journal.

“The liver sausages will be ready in a minute,” announced the landlord, emerging from the kitchen. And bless me if it wasn’t old Jan Binder, who used to own the merry-go-round. He had grown fat and no longer wore his striped jersey; nevertheless it was he!

“There’s no hurry,” Mr. Brych answered slowly. “Father Jost hasn’t turned up yet. Nor Rejzek either.”

“And—how is Mr. Kuzenda getting along?” Jan Binder inquired.

“Oh, well, you know. He’s not very grand. He’s one of the best men breathing, Mr. Binder.”

“He is, indeed,” assented the innkeeper. “I don’t know . . . Mr. Brych . . . what about taking him a few liver sausages with my compliments? They’re first class, Mr. Brych, and if you’d be so kind . . .”

“Why, with pleasure, Mr. Binder. He’ll be delighted to think you remember him. Of course I will. With pleasure!”

“Praise be the Lord!” came a voice from the doorway, and Canon Jost stepped into the room, his cheeks ruddy with the cold, and hung up his hat and fur coat.

“Good evening, your Reverence,” responded Mr. Brych. “We’ve waited for you—we’ve waited.”

Father Jost pursed his lips contentedly and rubbed his stiffened hands. “Well, sir, what’s in the papers, what have they got to say to-day?”

“I was just reading this: ‘The President of the Republic has appointed that youthful savant, Dr. Blahous, Lecturer at the University, to be Assistant Professor.’ You remember, Canon, it’s that Blahous who once wrote an article about Mr. Kuzenda.”