Francis Gordon’s idea of motoring up to London for Armistice Day—a pastime forbidden by the anti-joy-riding provisions of the Defence of the Realm Act—had entirely upset the Sunflowers-Tebbits routine. Usually, by breakfast-time, Peter had made his first inspection of the poultry houses; visited the milking-sheds; sped Sid Dyson on his way to Arlsfield Park (Peter, after endless finesse, had secured a timber-felling contract from the Colonel); discussed his round with ex-Corporal Hankins, who had one artificial leg, two merry blue eyes, and a mechanic’s passion for the delivery-van; and argued out at least one abstruse farming-problem with Harry Tebbits. On this particular morning it was Harry Tebbits, pipe in mouth, who strode over to see Peter; found him, cap on head, coat over arm, standing under the beaten walnut tree. The blond giant opined that if Peter really meant to go up to London, the least Peter could do would be to bring back some whisky. “Well,” said Peter, “I’ll do the best I can, Harry. But if the armistice _is_ signed, I expect London’ll be drunk dry by half-past two. Don’t suppose you’ll get much out of the folk today, Harry.” The giant smiled. “Not much use telling the cows about Armistices. Still, I don’t expect we’ll kill ourselves with work. Not today at all events. Old Tiger’s been after the skim again. Never saw such a dog for the milk.” “Tiger o’ Sunflowers,” an enormous silver-brindled Dane, lounged up the drive; gave his master dignified greeting. Patricia, furred and gauntleted, came hurrying out of the house. “Well, I may as well see you safe off the premises,” smiled Harry Tebbits. The three made their way to the “garrige.” Passing the stables, they heard Driver Garton’s, “Now then, you”; Evelyn and Primula’s raised voices; the stamp of hooves on tile. Wilhelmina, the bay filly who had succeeded Little Willie in Peter’s heart, was protesting as usual about her morning toilet. . . . Peter and Corporal Hankins had spent all Sunday tinkering with the Crossley, rubbing away the grease of two years’ idleness, fitting new sparking-plugs, testing brake-shoes and magneto, filling her petrol-tank and polishing her brass-work. Still, the car looked her age. “Charlie’ll have to give her a coat of varnish one of these days,” hazarded Charlie’s brother, tapping strong fingers on the bonnet. But the engine started sweetly enough; and Peter, running her out for Patricia to mount, felt conscious of the old driving-thrill. “Shan’t be at Dilly-Dally’s till nine,” he said as she climbed up beside him. Harry ran to open the gate; Tiger o’ Sunflowers smelt at the Klaxon, bounded away barking at the bark of it; Evelyn and Primula waved good-bye from the stable-door. They were off. By the meadow-patch it is a bare mile from Sunflowers to Glen Cottage; but the shortest road takes you half way to Arlsfield; circles a fair portion of the Tebbits-Jameson land before it dives towards the chestnut trees of Arlsfield Park.