"Wait for me, Pollard—wait for me!" called the clear little voice. The man stopped, and when Robin caught him up, they went together to the flower-garden, where Pollard was preparing the ground for a hedge of sweet peas next year. Here Robin was thrilled to perceive that Pollard started to dig a trench. He was a capital digger, throwing up great spadefuls of soil, and the trench was beautifully even. "They’d like you to help them in Belgium," Robin exclaimed admiringly, "you’re so strong—only you couldn’t do it that way." Pollard rested on his spade. "Well, there now, Mazter Robin," he exclaimed, "be you agoin’ to teach Oi to dig at this time o’ day?" "Not standing up like that," Robin continued, as though he had not heard—"not to begin with. You’d get shot directly. Can you do it as well lying down?" "Lyin’ down!" Pollard repeated. "Lyin’ down! ’Ooever ’eard o’ diggin’ lyin’ down?" "Soldiers do," Robin answered. "They have to. I can a little, too, only the soil here sticks to one so." "Do you mean as they lays flat on their backs and scrabbles sideways with a trowel?" asked Pollard, fairly puzzled. "No, no," exclaimed Robin, "front ways, of course. I could show you in a minute if nurse wasn’t so cross. You throw it up in front of you so’s to hide you, and when the hill in front’s high enough, and your hole is deep enough, then you can stand up, stooping, and dig your way. I’ve got one in my garden, not a good one, ’cos nurse stopped me, but you should see soldiers do it!" And just then nurse came to look for Robin, and took him indoors because it was getting dark. Pollard continued to dig thoughtfully. From time to time he paused, leant upon his spade and scratched his head. By the time he had prepared the ground for the sweet peas it was just about dark, but before he went home he visited Robin’s garden. Here he tried digging a trench in military fashion, and exceedingly hard work he found it. * * * * * From time to time precious letters came to Robin—from daddy in the trenches (how he longed to see _those_ trenches!), and from mother in her hospital. Aunt Monica was very kind about those letters; she read them aloud over and over again, till Robin knew them by heart and imparted their contents to Pollard, who always appeared much edified, though he was a man of few words. On the end of a barn that he passed every day between his mother’s cottage and the Vicarage, there were posters which declared in flaming, foot-long letters that his "King and Country" needed him, and adjuring him to join the Army NOW for the war, and so on.