"We feel we've got to. They want all the young men." "But you could help your country just as well by staying at höame and growing corn." "You can grow corn without us--we're wanted out there." "But you're all I've got--one go, and t'other stay." "No, we must stick together." "Oh, I know, I know--you've always thought more of each other than of your father or of Odiam." "Don't say that, dad--we care for you very much, and we're coming back." "There's no one gone from here as has ever come back." For the first time they noticed something of the cracked falsetto of old age in his voice, generally so firm and ringing. Their hearts smote them, but the instinct of self-preservation was stronger than pity. They knew now for certain that if they stayed Odiam would devour them, or at best they would escape maimed and only half alive. Either they must go at once--in time, like Richard, or go in a few years--too late, like Caro. Besides, the war called to their young blood; they thought of guns and bayonets, camp-fires and battlefields, glory and victory. Their youth called them, and even their father's game and militant old age could not silence its bugles and fifes. The next day they left Odiam for the recruiting station at Rye. Reuben and the farm-hands watched them as they marched off whistling "Good-bye, Dolly, I must leave you," shaking their shoulders in all the delight of their new freedom. They had gone--as Albert had gone, as Robert, as Richard, as Tilly, as Benjamin, as Caro, as Pete had gone. Reuben stood erect and stiff, his eyes following them as they turned out of the drive and disappeared down the Peasmarsh road. When they were out of sight he walked slowly to the new ground near the crest of Boarzell, which was being prepared for the winter wheat. He made a sign to the man who was guiding the plough, and taking the handles himself, shouted to the team. The plough went forward, the red earth turned, sprinkled, creamed into long furrows, and soothed Reuben's aching fatherhood with its moist fertile smell. It was the faithful earth, which was his enemy and yet his comforter--which was always there, though his children forsook him--the good earth to which he would go at last. § 12. Reuben was now alone at Odiam--for the first time. Of course Harry was with him still, but Harry did not count. There was an extraordinary vitality in him, none the less; it was as if the energies unused by his brain were diverted to keep together his crumbled body. He grew more shrivelled, more ape-like every day, and yet he persisted in life. He still scraped at his fiddle, and would often sit for hours at a time mumbling--"Only a poor old man--a poor old man--old man--old man," over and over again, sometimes with a sudden shrill cry of "Salvation's got me!" or "Another wedding!--we're always having weddings in this house." His brother avoided him, and did his best to ignore him--he was the scar of an old wound.