Tom’s heart warmed a little towards Mus’ Archie. He was making him feel as he had felt when Bill Putland said, “We’re all eighteenth Sussex hereabouts.” “It aun’t the going as un vrother me, if it wurn’t fur leaving Worge. I’m fretted as the plaace ull land at the auctioneer’s if I’m long away. You see, I’ve always done most of the work, in my head as well as wud my hands. Faather, he aun’t a healthy man, and the others aun’t much help nuther. There’s only Harry lik to be any use, and he’s such an unaccountable limb of wickedness—for ever at his tricks—to-night’s only one of them.” “Perhaps he’ll pull himself together and work for Worge when he sees you’ve gone to fight for it.” This was new light on the matter for Tom. Hitherto he had always thought of himself as deserting Worge in its hour of need—it had never occurred to him that his going was the going of a champion, not of a traitor. “Maybe it’s as you say, Mus’ Archie. Leastways, we’ll hope so.” They were in the hall again now, and the gramophone was singing in its spooky voice. “You called me Baby Doll a year ago.” Tom slowly turned the handle of the front door, sidling out on to the step. “Thank you for the clothes, Mus’ Archie. I’ll try and talk some sense into Harry before I go.” “Good night, Beatup, and good luck to you. I expect I’ll see some more of you in the near future. All the chaps round here seem to be drafted into the eighteenth. Bill Putland will be in our little crowd, and Jerry Sumption—there’ll be quite a Dallington set at Waterheel.” “I hope I’ll be with you, Mus’ Archie.” “I hope you will, Beatup. Good night.” “Good night, sir.” The door shut, and he was out in the drive, where the larches swung against the moon. Archie Lamb went back into the drawing-room, and put a new record on the gramophone. “Queer chap, Beatup,” he said to his mother. “I don’t know how he’ll shape. He looks strong and steady, but I should say about as smart as a mangold-wurzel.” 13 Tom swung along the dim road, where the shadows ran before him. The new-risen moon looked over the hedge, an amber disc just past the full, swimming against the wind from Satanstown. In the heart of the wind seemed still to beat the pulse of those far-off guns, the ghost of their day-long thunder. Over and over in his mind Tom turned his new thought—that he was going to fight for Worge. In a quarter of an hour he had come to Sunday Street. He could see the moonlight lying like frost on the southward slope of the roofs, and the windows of the Bethel were ghostly with it, as they stared away to the marshes. The Bethel alone seemed awake in the little huddle of sleeping cottages—it had a strange look of watchfulness and waiting, its gaunt Georgian windows never had that comfortable blinking air of the cottage lattices.... Tom did not like the Bethel at night.