Mr. Trupp and Mr. Pigott followed behind. "The Archdeacon lags a bit," said the former. "Yes," answered the other. "And I don't wonder. This war'll be the end of him yet. You heard about last night?" The veteran had sallied out at midnight with an electric torch and the Reverend Spink to deal with spies who had been signalling from the top of the Downs. Unhappily the stalker had himself been stalked by another patriot bent on the same errand. The two old gentlemen had arrested each other by the dew-pond on Warren Hill; and report had it that words and worse had passed between the two. In the small hours of the morning Anne Caspar, hearing voices, had risen and seen from her window the Archdeacon stalking down the road, dusty, draggled, his curate trotting with sullen barks at the heels of his chief. The Archdeacon had no prisoner, but he had lumbago, a scratch or two, and an indignant sense that his curate had proved both disloyal and inefficient. The two had parted at the Rectory gate wrathfully, the Reverend Spink offering his resignation. Opposite his garage in the Golfs, Alf now said goodbye to his Rector, and crossed the road with an almost aggressively sprightly air. Mr. Trupp noticed it. "What about him and his Touring Syndicate?" he asked. "He's all right," answered Mr. Pigott. "Trust him for that. Artful isn't in it with Alf. Called his drivers together on the declaration of war, and made em a speech. Said he knew where they wanted to be--where he wanted to be himself: in the fighting line. He'd be the last to stand between them and their duty. He wouldn't keep them to their contract. The Motor Transport was crying for them--five bob a day and glory galore. All he could do was to say God bless you and wish he could go himself--only his responsibilities...." Mr. Trupp grinned. "Did they swallow it down?" he asked. "Like best butter," said Mr. Pigott. "He's got the tongue. He twisted em. Parliament's the place for Alf." "Ah!" committed the other. "We're only beginning. This war'll find us all out too before we're through." ... Alf turned into his yard. A little group of broken down old men were waiting him there. "Who are you?" he asked fiercely. "What you want?" "We've come on behalf of the cleaners, sir," said the spokesman, in the uncertain voice of the half-starved. "What about us?--The Army don't want us." The group tittered a feeble deprecatory titter. "H'every man for himself in these days!" cried Alf, brief and brisk. "I'm not the Charity Organisation Society."