“Faather, I aun’t bin roving all this winter.” “No, you aun’t—that’s a good lad, fur sartain sure.” “And if you let me do this job, I promise I’ll stick to it and pull it through.” “You might as well chuck your money into the pond as spend it on grain-growing nowadays.” “Not wud all these new arrangements the Govunmunt’s maade ... guaranteed prices and all. Oh, faather, let me try as I said. I want to do my bit saum as Tom.” “Seemingly your bit’s to land Worge at the auctioneer’s. Howsumdever, do wot you lik—I’m ill and helpless and oald. I can’t stop you. Now adone do wud all this vrotherification of a poor sick man, and ask mother to let me have a spoonful of syrup in this nasty muck.” 2 So on Harry, sixteen years old, with little or no experience, and a bad character to live down, fell the task of bringing Worge into line with a national endeavour. It was strange how his earthy imagination had taken fire at the new idea, and a curious justification of the Press. A sense of patriotism had wakened in him, as it had not wakened in Tom after nearly a twelve-month’s service. Tom was no longer indifferent or unwilling, but his enthusiasm scarcely went beyond the regiment—the feeling of “Sussex chaps”—the idea of fighting for Worge, or, at the most abstract, “having a whack at Kayser Bill.” He had been in France about three months now. He had not been sent over as soon as he expected, but in November there had been a big draft from the 18th Sussex, including Tom and Jerry and Bill, also Mus’ Archie—Mus’ Dixon, who had been badly gassed on the Somme, stayed behind in charge of “School,” and rumour said that he would not be sent out again. So far Tom seemed to have had a far duller time abroad than in England; he had not so much as seen a German; and his letters home were chiefly about mud. The family jealously hinted that his letters to Thyrza Honey were more entertaining. However, he kept his promise to Harry, and sent him councillor postcards now and again. The last had consisted of just one word—“spuds!” That was the spring when potatoes were being sold at sixpence a pound in Eastbourne and Hastings, and such inducements were held out to growers, that instead of the usual modest half-acre, Harry intended to make potatoes part of his new scheme. The two-acre was in potash this year, also the home field, and Harry decided to break up the pasture-land next the orchard. Some of the space would have to be used for roots—swedes and wurzels—but there would be a spud-growing such as Worge had never seen in its history. Then there was the more ticklish problem of the grain, and what kinds to sow. Harry took Tom’s advice and decided on Sandy oats for the Street field and the field next the Volunteer. In the home field he would grow awned wheat—and red spring wheat on the reclaimed tillage of the Sunk Field.