“Hush, Tom! I never said as you wur to say that—but you might have let ’em know, careful like, as he aun’t always able to look after the farm as well as you might think.” “It ud have done no good. Drunkenness aun’t a reason for exemption, as they say. Besides, I’d middling little to do in the matter. Faather was applying fur me, and he did all the talking—an unaccountable lot of it, too. I wurn’t took because there wurn’t enough said against it, I promise you. But seemingly before a farm chap like me gits off, he’s got to have a certifickit from the War Agricultural Committee, and they read a letter saying as they’d recommended one to be given, but the Executive Committee or summat hadn’t fallen in wud it. So there’s no use crying, mother, for go I must, and it’ll be none the easier for you making all this vrother.” He was cross because he was unhappy. “Will you be in the Royal Sussex, Tom—along of Mus’ Dixon and Mus’ Archie?” asked Zacky, the youngest boy. “I dunno.” “When ull you be leaving?” “In a fortnight, I’ve told you.” “I hear as how Bill Putland ull be going soon,” said Mrs. Beatup. “He’d be company like fur you, Tom.” “Bill!—he’s too unaccountable fine and grand fur me. He thinks no end of himself being Mus’ Lamb’s chuvver. But I’ll tell you who’s joined the Sussex, though, and that’s Jerry Sumption. I met Mus’ Sumption, this evenun, and he toald me.” “You doan’t mean to say as Jerry’s left the fackory?” “Yes. He went and enlisted—minister says he’s unaccountable proud of him.” There was a crackle of laughter round the table. “Well, we all of us know, and I reckon minister knows as we know, that if Jerry had bin any sort of use at the munititions they wouldn’t have let him join up. It’s a law that if you maake munititions you doan’t have to join up.” “Oh, Jerry’s bin never no good at naun. He’s jest a roving gipsy dog.” Mrs. Beatup turned suddenly to Ivy: “Did you know aught of this?” “Not I!” said Ivy carelessly. “Jerry hasn’t written to me fur more’n a month. Maybe this is why.” “I’m justabout sorry fur Mus’ Sumption,” said Tom, whom his supper had put in better humour. “He has a feeling as Jerry ull come to no good in the army.” “No more he will, nor nowhere, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Doan’t you never have naun to do wud him, Tom. I doan’t want my children to git the splash of that gipsy muck——” And she threw another half-defiant, half-furtive look at Ivy. “Where’s Harry?” asked Tom. “Out ratting,” Zacky informed him. “Well, he woan’t find any supper’s bin kept fur him, that’s all,” said Mrs. Beatup, rising and pushing back her chair. “Nell, put the plaates on the tray and maake yourself useful fur wunst.” A flush crept over Nell’s pale, pretty face, from her neck to the roots of her reddish hair. She gingerly picked up two of the smelly, greasy plates, then quickly put them down again. “There’s faather.” “Where?” Mrs. Beatup listened. “I heard the gate—and there goes the side door.”