“You'll know soon enough what club-men are,” the old man answered, “if there's any more of this drunken dirty robbery I saw this afternoon. Those thieves who stole the farmer's cattle would have been shot in Oliver's time. They'd have cast lots on a drum in sight of all on us, drawn up. The men who got the low numbers would have been shot. The captains would have pistolled them where they stood. If this robbing goes on, all the farmers will club together to defend themselves, making a sort of second army for us to fight against. That is what club-men means. It's not a nice thing to fight in a country where there are club-men all round you. No, boy. So what with all this, boy, I be going to creep out of this 'ere army. I do-an't like the look of things, nor I do-an't like the way things are done. If you take a old man's advice you'll come too.” “Noa,” said the honest oaf, “I be agoin' to vight. I be a-goin' to London town to be a girt sol-dier.” “Ah,” said the old man, shortly, “you be a vule, Tummas. Wish ee good day, maister.” Then the old man turned sharply on his heel to leave the camp, which he did easily enough, for he knew several of the sentries. Even if he had not known them, it would have made little difference, because our sentries were so lax that the camp was always swarming with strangers. Women came to see their husbands or sweethearts. Boys came out of love of mischief. Men came out of curiosity, or out of some wish to see things before they decided which side to take. Our captains were never sure at night how many of their men would turn up at muster the next morning.