At the end of November the bells rang for the advance at Cambrai—old Dallington tower rocked with its chimes, and even the little tin clapper at Brownbread Street tinkled away for an hour or more. Mr. Poullett-Smith and his organist spent half a dozen evenings trying to make a dodging choir face a Solemn Te Deum approved by the Gregorian Society. Unluckily, the singers who would have easily blustered through Stainer in F or Martin in C, grew hang-dog and discouraged in the knots of Tones and Mediations, so that by the time the Te Deum was ready, Bourlon Wood had been evacuated by the British and the victory of Cambrai became something perilously near a fiasco. Fortunately the capture of Jerusalem soon afterwards saved the Te Deum from being wasted. These alternating victories and disasters were very bad for Mus’ Beatup, for he celebrated them all in the same way at the Rifle Volunteer. The only difference was that from some obscure sport of habit he celebrated a victory in gin and a defeat in whisky. He was very bad after both aspects of Cambrai, and Jerusalem brought him to ruin. Soon after nine there was a loud knocking at the back door, rousing all the Beatups who had fallen asleep in the kitchen. Nell was asleep because she always seemed to be tired and drowsy now, Mrs. Beatup was asleep because she reckoned she wouldn’t have much of a night with Maaster, Zacky and Harry were asleep on the floor in front of the fire, curled up together like puppies—Zacky because it was long past the time he ought to have been in bed, Harry because he had had a hard day ploughing the clays. There was great confusion and rubbing of eyes, and the knock was repeated. “Go and see who it is, Nell,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Harry, I dreamt as we wur being bombed by Zepperlians like the folk at Pett.” “I dreamt of naun—I’m going to sleep agaun.” He dropped his head back against Zacky—and just at that moment Nell reappeared in the doorway, with a terrified face. “Mother—it’s father; he’s been hurt....” “Hurt!—you mean killed....” “I don’t—I mean hurt. There’s a man with him, helping him in.” “I’m a-going,” and Mrs. Beatup seized the lamp and waddled out, followed by her scared and sleepy offspring. In the passage a big soldier was propping up a Mus’ Beatup who looked as if he was stuffed with sawdust. “He’s had a bit of a fall,” said the soldier as he staggered under his burden. “I was seeing him home like, and he slipped in the yard.” “I reckon every boan in his body’s bruk,” said Mrs. Beatup—“that’s how he looks, surelye. Let him sit down, poor soul.” Mus’ Beatup slid through the soldier’s arms to a sitting posture on the floor. Harry pushed forward and offered to help carry him into the kitchen. “Someone ud better go fur a doctor,” said the escort. “I don’t like the look of him.”