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Updated: May 20, 2025
Sergeant Phillpots had been shot through the jaw so that he went to his knees as a bullock does at the slaughtering. He supported himself waveringly by his hands. The blood poured from him so that he was all but fainting with the loss of it. A big German stood over him. Phillpots looked up: "Play the game! Play the game!" he muttered weakly. The German coolly put a round through his head.
However, in a day or two, I managed to unload "The Case against Phillpots" on somebody else, and off I started for the New Jersey coast with a hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket, and no end of plans for a long autumn holiday.
"I know that when WE were in London," some pleasant, interested voice would interpose, modestly, "our friends Lord and Lady Merridew, they were, you know, and Sir Henry Phillpots they were in mourning, and THEY didn't. But of course I don't know what other people, not nobility, that is, might do!" And of course this crushing conclusion admitted of no answer.
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