September 3, 1939 – London, England

The world is now at war. As of eleven o'clock this morning, a state of war has existed between Britain and Germany. The mobilization of ground, air, and sea forces continues around the country. Any members of the armed forces or the reserves are to report to the nearest base or recruiting office immediately.

New Zealand and Australia have just declared war on Germany. Canada pledges its support but a Canadian declaration of war is not being issued at this time. This concludes the BBC Special Report.

"Hey, Murray!" Peter Newkirk yelled across the crowded pub, watching for his brother's curly head to pop up. "You owe me a round of drinks for me and me friends."

There had been no response to his name, but at the mention of having to buy drinks, Murray's head snapped up and he started dodging tables to make his way over to his older brother. "What do you mean I owe you a round of drinks?" he protested. "I bought the last round. It's your turn to buy me and me mates a round!"

"Don't you remember our bet, you little bugger?" Newkirk asked, cuffing his brother lightly. Murray stood a head taller than Newkirk, but Newkirk had never been able to stop thinking of him as the kid brother who had trailed him forlornly around London after their father had split.

"Which bet?" Murray questioned, scratching his head. There was no shortage of bets to remember. The two were always betting one another about something. Or if they weren't betting themselves, they were acting as bookies for their friends. It was a lucrative side business to their magic act.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. It was just like his brother to conveniently forget a bet that he had just lost. "You said that the situation on the Continent wouldn't come to war," he said, poking his brother in the ribs as though the prodding would jar his memory.

Murray thought for another moment, then nodded his head ruefully. "That I did," he admitted reluctantly. He sighed, motioning for the bartender. "Uncle Frank, I guess Peter'll be having a dark and tan on me."

"What's the occasion?" the man asked, wiping his hands on his apron. "You to pick up some beautiful birds? And do they have a friend for me?" he added with a wink.

"No luck this time, Uncle Frank," Newkirk replied happily. "This whippersnapper bet that there wouldn't be a war," he explained as their uncle drew the ale. "And you all heard the BBC!" he announced to the bar, draining the last bit of his previous drink.

"You know, Peter," Frank commented, leaning up on the counter, "I can guarantee that you won't be nearly so happy when this whole business is over. I can give you great odds on that one." Unconsciously, his hand drifted down his side.

Newkirk knew that Frank had scars marking his torso; he had been caught in a burst of shellfire during the last war. Newkirk nodded solemnly for a moment, but he couldn't repress the exuberance in his eyes. "Quiet!" he called. "I said QUIET!" he repeated as the hubbub died down.

"That's better," he continued, pulling a pen from his pocket with a flourish. "When we've defeated the Krauts," he stated confidently, "the first round of drinks that day is on me. That's right. I'm going to buy every last bloody one of you a drink."

He reached into another pocket for the only source of paper he carried with him everywhere, his little black book. He flipped to the last few pages, thankful that it was a new book. His last one had been filled a week or so ago. "Just sign your names here," he declared, "so I can keep track of how many quid I've got to save up."

Murray slapped his brother's back resoundingly. "Let me be the first on your list," he replied, snatching the pen out of Newkirk's hand and scrawling his name at the top of the page. "I never pass up the opportunity for a drink on someone else."

People were starting to press in toward the bar, anxious to get their names on the list. They too never liked to pass up the opportunity for a free drink. Behind the bar, Frank rubbed his side thoughtfully. Newkirk reached out to snatch up the ale that had been poured for him, chugging it down as fast as he could.

"Make sure I get that book back," he whispered across the bar to his uncle. "I got the number of a blonde 35-32- 36 the other day. Haven't had a chance to ring her up yet," he added with a wink that Frank didn't return.

Sliding through the crowd toward the door, Newkirk hesitated on the threshold, calling out, "But everyone, this round's on Murray!"

Murray's head shot up and he started trying to fight his way through the crowd toward the door. Peter grinned, tipped his hat to his younger brother, and stepped out onto the London streets, humming a happy tune.