Once more--how does the faded military person come to be on
the roads? We shall come to that presently.
Observe the temporary lord of the tap-room when you halt on the dusty
roads and search for tea or lunch. He is in black, and a soiled
handkerchief is wound round his throat like an eel. He wears a soft felt
hat which has evidently done duty as a night-cap many times, and he
tries to bear himself as though the linen beneath his pinned-up coat
were of priceless quality. You know well enough that he has no shirt on,
for he would sell one within half an hour if any Samaritan fitted him
out. His boots are carefully tucked away under the bench, and his sharp
knees seem likely to start through their greasy casing. As soon as he
sees you he determines to create an impression, and he at once draws you
into the conversation. "Now, sir, you and I are scholars--I am an old
Balliol man myself--and I was explaining to these good lads the meaning
of the phrase which had puzzled them, as it has puzzled many more.
_Casus belli_, sir--that is what we find in this local rag of a journal;
and _status quo ante bellum_. Now, sir, these ignorant souls couldn't
tell what was meant, so I have been enlightening them.
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