Hitherto, Pollard had regarded the war entirely from the outside. "Soldierin’ bain’t for the likes of me," he said, and his mother quite agreed with him. Some was "fond of a bit of soldiering" even in peace; and it was quite natural and suitable that such should join the "Tarriers." For them, of course, the call to arms was imperative, and Pollard took it for granted that they should obey and march away, and be seen no more. He was quite content that they should do so. But, with regard to himself, such a course seemed neither sensible nor feasible. "What’d I do with a gun, let alone a bay’nit?" he would inquire facetiously. "I shouldn’t know which end to catch ’old on ’im. What good ’ud a’ be?" Lately, though, there had stirred in his mind a tiny, creeping doubt as to whether it was quite justifiable to remain in this state of ignorance. Much talk with Robin, or rather much listening to the talk of Robin, had opened new vistas of possibility to Pollard. He realised in a dim, kindly way that the child was homesick and lonely, and longing for his parents; yet the little boy never wished they had not gone. The Major’s letters, too, repeated word for word by his little son, so simple and plain in their language, yet told heroic things of the doings of his men, and these men Pollard knew were "poor Injuns"—"blackies" he had called them, till Robin, indignantly denied that they were anything of the sort. It began to dawn upon Pollard that the heathen in his blindness, who had crossed the seas to fight for old England, was perhaps doing more to uphold her honour than certain young Englishmen who _could_ go, and remained peacefully at home. He had inquired of Robin as to their worship of "wood and stone," but Robin could throw no light upon this, declaring, indeed, that his father’s Sikhs "were very religious men, very religious, indeed." So there was another illusion gone. Pollard became more and more uncomfortable and uncertain. The red posters seemed to reproach him, but the trench finished him altogether. As he walked home that night as much "all over mould" as Robin had been earlier in the day, the good, clean smell of the wet earth in his nostrils seemed to go to his head like wine, for he kept on muttering to himself: "There be summat as I can do, any’ow." The thought that a man who could dig might be of use "over there" was positively staggering in its intensity. * * * * * Robin was allowed to sit up half an hour later on a Saturday evening, and during that half-hour Aunt Monica read to him or played spillikins with him, or helped him to stick in his little flags on the big map mummy had given him before she left. That evening they did the map, for there were a lot of new flags to stick in for Russia. When nurse came for him, as they climbed the broad staircase together, she said in quite an excited voice: "You have done it this time, Master Robin; Pollard’s gone for a soldier."