The Rifle Volunteer looked down from his sign, where he stood in the grey uniform and mutton-chop whiskers of an earlier dispensation, and stared at the stocky, shambling little figure that trudged its unwilling way to sacrifice—past Worge Cottages, stewing in the sunshine like pippins, past Egypt Farm (which Bill Putland would leave later and more conveniently in his father’s dog-cart), past the shop, with a glance half shy, half beseeching, at the drawn blinds, past the willow pond, out of Sunday Street, into the long yellow road that led to the unsought, undesired adventure. PART II: JERRY 1 Mrs. Beatup’s tears ran down her face as she hurried back up the drive, but she wiped them vigorously away with her apron, and had nothing but her red eyes to show when she entered the kitchen. Everyone had gone, except Ivy and Nell. The former had not finished her hearty breakfast, the latter was packing her books for school, and some sort of a wrangle was going on between them. Mrs. Beatup heard Nell call Ivy “vulgar” just as she came into the room. Ivy laughed, truly a vulgar performance with her mouth full. “Now, you two gals, doan’t you start quarrelling just when you brother’s a-gone; maybe fur ever.” “We aun’t quarrelling,” said Ivy. “I’ve told her she’s sweet on parson, that’s all.” “All!” sniffed Nell. “Maybe you think it’s nothing to have your vulgar mind making out my—my friendship with Mr. Poullett-Smith’s the same as yours with—with—anyone that ull let you make sheep’s eyes at him.” “Nell!” cried her mother. “For shaum!” “Well, I don’t care”—the younger girl’s anger had been roused by many coarse flicks—“everyone talks about Ivy’s goings-on.” “I doan’t care if they do,” said Ivy cavernously in her tea-cup. “Reckon it’s cos they’re jealous of me gitting the boys.” “Well, Ivy,” said Mrs. Beatup, “I doan’t hold wud your goings-on, nuther; but anyway you’re useful.” “I’m earning money, though,” said Nell; “at least I shall be when my third year’s up.” “And how soon ull that be, I’d lik to know? There you go, out all day, when you might be helping us at home, and not a penny to show fur it.” “Mother, I’ve told you again and again—why won’t you understand?—I’m being given lessons in exchange for those I give myself, and——” “Lessons! A girl turned seventeen! I call it lamentable. I’d a-done wud my schooling at twelve.” “But you know I have to pass an exam....” “I doan’t see no ‘have’ in it. Better kip at hoame and help me wud the cooking. Out all day and bring home no money! I doan’t call that——” “Well, I’m off,” said Ivy, getting up and wiping her mouth. “You two are lik a couple of barndoor cocks, walking round and round each other. I’ve summat better to do—I’ve the passage to scrub”—and she took her sacking apron off the nail. “Where’s Zacky?” asked Mrs. Beatup. “Has he started for school?” “Yes, he’s gone wud the Sindens.” “And Harry?”