"You can't have your tea for another hour: and what's more, if you're not careful there won't be no amputation till afterwards, when Mother's not lookin' an' we can get a knife off the table. You bad boy!" 'Biades howled afresh. "If you don't stop it,"--'Bert took a hand in threatening,-- "you won't get cut open till Monday; because 'tis Sunday to-morrow. And by that time you'll be festerin', I shouldn't wonder." "--And mortification will have set in," promised his sister. "When that happens, you may turn up your toes. An' 'tis only a question between oak an' elum." 'Biades ceased yelling as abruptly as he had started. "What's 'fester'?" he demanded. "You'll know fast enough, when you find yourself one solid scab," began 'Bert. But Nicky-Nan interrupted. "There, there, children! Run along an' don't ee play at trouble. There's misery enough, the Lord knows--" He broke off on a twinge of pain, and stared down-stream at the congregated masts in the little harbour. Polpier lies in a gorge so steep and deep that though it faces but a little east of south, all its western flank lay already in deep shadow. The sunlight slanting over the ridge touched the tops of the masts, half a dozen of which had trucks with a bravery of gilt, while a couple wore the additional glory of a vane. On these it flashed, and passed on to bathe the line of cottages along the eastern shore, with the coast-guard hut that stood separate beyond them on the round of the cliff-track--all in one quiet golden glow. War? Who could think of War? . . . Nicky-Nan at any rate let the thought of it slip into the sea of his private trouble. It was as though he had hauled up some other man's "sinker" and, discovering his mistake, let it drop back plumb. While he stared, the children had stolen away. Yet he loitered there staring, in the hush of the warm afternoon, lifting his eyes a little towards the familiar outline of the hills that almost overlapped, closing out sight of the sea. A verse ran in his head--"_I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help_. . . ." The slamming of a door at the street-corner beyond the bridge recalled him to the world of action. On the doorstep of the local Bank--turning key in lock as he left the premises--stood a man respectably dressed and large of build. It was Mr Pamphlett, the Bank-Manager. Nicky-Nan thrust his hands in his trouser-pockets and limped towards him. "If you please, sir--" Mr Pamphlett faced about, displaying a broad white waistcoat and a ponderous gold watch-chain. "Ah! Nanjivell?" "If you please, sir--" Nicky-Nan, now balanced on his sound leg, withdrew a hand from his pocket and touched his cap. "I've been waitin' your convenience." "Busy times," said Mr Pamphlett. "This Moratorium, you know. The War makes itself felt, even in this little place."