“Yes—in the pilgrim-basket, so you may be sure she hasn’t drowned herself.” “She’s gone away wud that dirty soldier!” cried Mus’ Beatup. “That justabout proves it.” “It doan’t,” said his wife. “Ivy’s an honest girl.” “An honest girl as walks out wud a married man fur all the Street to see, and then goes and gits half murdered by a gipsy!” “A clergyman’s son,” corrected Mrs. Beatup. “And it wurn’t her fault, nuther. Our Ivy may be a bit flighty, but she’s pure as the morning’s milk.” “Whur’s she gone, then? She’d nowheres to go. You doan’t know the warld as I do, and I tell you she’s gone wud un, and be hemmed to her. We’re all disgraced and ull never hoald up our heads agaun.” “I woan’t believe it.” “You’re an obstinate oald wife—I tell you it’ll be proved to-morrer.” “How?” “I’ll go to the camp myself and find out. If Seagrim’s gone too, then it’s proved.” The family went to bed convinced, except for Mrs. Beatup—who kept up a mulish belief in her daughter’s honesty—that Ivy had run away with Seagrim. The next morning Mus’ Beatup set out for Hailsham to make enquiries. But he had not been fitted by nature for a diplomatic visit to a military camp—all he did was to fall foul of various sentries and nearly get arrested. In the end he found himself back in the road, with nothing gained except perhaps the fact that he was not in the guard-room. He felt as if the whole British Army were in league against him, the accomplice of one Corporal in his crimes, and was scanning the scenery for a public-house when he heard the sound of marching feet, and a file came tramping up the road, commanded by Seagrim himself. Mus’ Beatup straddled across his way. “Who are you? Stand clear!” cried the Corporal, while the file marched stiffly onwards. “Whur’s my daughter?” “Stand clear—or A’ll have you put under arrest.” “I want my daughter—Ivy Beatup.” “Halt!” cried Seagrim to the file, which had now marched a discreet distance ahead. “A don’t knaw owt of your daughter. A’ve not clapped eyes on her sine Sunday week.” “She’s run away.” “A don’t knaw owt.” “You don’t know where she is?” “A don’t knaw owt. Quick march!” and off went he and his file in a cloud of dust, leaving Mus’ Beatup furious and confounded. “He’s a militaryist,” he mumbled, “a hemmed militaryist—treating me as if I wur pigs’ dirt. That’s wot we’re coming to, I reckon, wot Govunmunt’s brung us to—militaryists and the pigs’ dirt they spannell on. Ho! there’ll be a revolution soon”—and he floundered up the road towards Hailsham where the sign of the Red Lion hung across the way. 10