“Dear Father,” it ran, “I reckon you’ll be wild when you get this. I have left the Fackory and have enlisted in the R. Sussex Regement. I could not stand that dirty tyke of Hubbard our forman any more. So I’ve gone, for I’m sick of this, and there’s no fear of my being fetched back, as I’m not satisfackory nor skilled in particular, and should have been fetched out anyhow all in good time, I reckon. So don’t go taking on about this, but please send me some fags, and I should like some chockolate, and get some of those kokernut buns at the shop with the crinkly paper round. It is a week since I did it, but I have been to the Y.M.C.A., and bought some Cherry-blossom boot-pollish and a packet of Players, and have no more money, and they said on a board ‘Write home to-night.’ Well, dear Father, I hope you will not take this too badly. Some good may come of it, for I am a soldier now and going to fight the Germans. Good-bye and don’t forget to send the things I said. “Your loving son, “JERRY. “(467572 Pvte. Sumption, 9th Co. 18th Bn. R. Suss. Rejiment.)” The minister crushed the letter back into the pocket already bulging with the swede. “O Lord,” he groaned, “why doth it please Thee to afflict Thy servant again? I reckon I’ve stood a lot on account of that boy, and there seems no end to it. He’s the prodigal son that never comes home, he’s the lost sheep that never gets into the fold, and yet he’s my child and the woman from Ihornden’s....” His mutterings died down, for he heard footsteps behind him. A young man was crossing the field from Slivericks, a sturdy, stocky fellow, about five-and-a-half feet high, with leggings and corduroy riding-breeches, and a black coat which was a little too small for him and as he drew near sent out an odour of moth-killer—evidently some young farmer, unaccountably Sundified on a week-day evening. “Hullo, Tom,” said the minister. “Hullo, Mus’ Sumption.” The boy stood aside for the older man to cross the stile. His head hung a little over the unaccustomed stiffness of his collar, and his eyes seemed full of rather painful thought. Mr. Sumption fumbled in his pockets, drew out the letter, the swede, a pencil without a point, a Testament, a squashed mass of chickweed, a tract, and finally a broken-backed cigarette, which he handed to Tom. “Bad news, I reckon?” Tom nodded. “They woan’t let me off. I wur afeard they wouldn’t. You see, there’s faather and the boys left, and I couldn’t explain as how faather had bad habits. You can’t bite back lik that on your own kin.” “No, you can’t,” and Mr. Sumption carefully smoothed a dirty scrap of paper as he put it back in his pocket. “By the way, my boy’s just joined up. I heard from him this morning. He’s in the Eighteenth Sussex—I shouldn’t wonder if you found yourselves together.” “Lord, Mus’ Sumption! You doan’t tell me as he’s left the factory?”