The interview lasted some time, and it was the Colonel who did the talking. "And now I won't detain you further, Mr. Caspar," he said at the end. "My clerk in the next room will take all your particulars for our index card register, so that we needn't bother you again when conscription comes." "Conscription!" cried Alf, changing colour. "Yes," replied the Colonel. "There's been no public announcement yet. But there's no reason you shouldn't know it's coming. It's got to." Alf went out as a man goes to execution. He returned to his now almost deserted garage to find there a note from the Archdeacon asking him to be good enough to call at the Rectory that afternoon. Alf stood at the window and looked out with dull eyes. Now that the earth which three weeks since had felt so solid beneath his feet was crumbling away beneath him, he needed the backing of the Church more than ever; and for all his brave words to Mr. Spink, he was determined not to relinquish his position in it without a fight. That afternoon he walked slowly up the hill to the Rectory. Outside the white gate he stood in the road under the sycamore trees, gathering courage to make the plunge. If was five o'clock. A man got off the bus at Billing's Corner and came down the road towards him. Alf was aware of him, but did not at first see who he was. "Not gone yet then?" said the man. "No," Alf answered. "Got about as far as you--and that ain't very far." "I'm on the way," answered Joe. "Going up to the camp in Summerdown now; and join up this evening." "Ah," said Alf. "I'll believe it when I see it." Swag on back, Joe tramped sturdily on towards the Downs. Alf watched him. Then a gate clicked; and Edward Caspar came blundering down the road. Alf in his loneliness was drawn towards him. "Good evening, father," he said. The old gentleman blinked vaguely through his spectacles, and answered most courteously, "Good evening, Mr. Er-um-ah!" and rolled on down the road. So his own father didn't know him! Overhead an aeroplane buzzed by. From the coombe came the eternal noise of the hammers as the great camp there took shape. Along Summerdown Road at the end of Rectory Walk a long convoy of Army Service Corps wagons with mule-teams trailed by. A big motor passed him. In it was Stanley Bessemere and three staff-officers with red bands round their caps. They were very pleased with themselves and their cigars. The member for Beachbourne West did not see his supporter. Then there sounded the tramp of martial feet. It was Saturday afternoon. The Old Town Company of Volunteers, middle-aged men for the most part, known to Alf from childhood, was marching by on the way to drill on the Downs. A fierce short man was in charge. Three rough chevrons had been sewn on to his sleeve to mark his rank as sergeant; and he wore a belt tightly buckled about his ample waist. All carried dummy rifles.