There were several acres of old tillage to be reclaimed, and Harry was young and daring and amateurish enough to contemplate also breaking up grass-land. He would of course have to consult his father first. Mus’ Beatup had spent a sorry winter, “kipping the coald out” at the Rifle Volunteer. The slackness of farm work, the cold and discomfort of the weather, the growing unpalatableness of his meals, all combined for worse results than usual, and by the time of the keen wintry spring there was no denying that a good slice of both his physical and mental vigour had been eaten away. However, he was still the nominal head of the farm, and must be consulted—Tom would have had it so. Unfortunately, Harry chose the wrong day. Mus’ Beatup was sober, but suffering from an internal chill as a result of having lain for an hour in the frozen slush a couple of nights ago, before Nimrod the watch-dog found him and brought Harry out with his frantic barks. To-day he sat by the fire, shuddering and muttering to himself, drinking a cup of hot cocoa and swearing at his wife because there was no sugar in it. “I can’t git none,” wailed Mrs. Beatup. “I tried at the Shop, and Nell tried in Brownbread Street, and Ivy’s tried in Dallington, and Harry asked when he wur over at Senlac market....” “And have you tried Rushlake Green and Punnetts Town and Three Cups Corner and Heathfield and Hellinglye and Hailsham? You try a bit further afore you dare to give me this stuff.” “But there aun’t none in the whole country—so I’ve heard tell.” “Maybe. Reckon Govunmunt’s got it all, saum as they’ve got all the beer and the spirits. They’ve got pounds and pounds of it, those there Cabinick Ministers, and eat it for breakfast and dinner and tea. I tell you I’m dog-sick of this war, and I’m hemmed if I move another step to help a Govunmunt as taakes fust our beer and then our boys, and then our sugar”—and Mus’ Beatup spat dramatically into the fire, as if it were Whitehall. The moment was not propitious, but Harry had to consider the weather, which showed possibilities that must be made use of at once. Mus’ Beatup listened wearily to his suggestions. “Oh, it’s more wheat as they want, is it? They’re going to take that next.... Reclaim the oald tillage? Wot did we let it go fallow fur, if it wurn’t cos it dudn’t pay the labour?... Break up the grass-land? You’ll be asking to plough the kitchen floor next.” “If we doan’t do summat, I reckon we’ll be maade to.” “Reckon we will—saum as we wur maade to give up Tom. And they say this country’s fighting Prussian tyranny.” “Well, faather, if we doan’t grow more corn we’ll lose the war. I wur reading in the paapers as all our corn and wheat used to come from furrin parts, but now, wud ships wanted to carry soldiers and them hemmed U-boats spannelling around....” “You talk lik the _Sussex News_. Wot d’you want to go vrothering about them things fur? You do your work and doan’t go roving.”