"It's One--Two--ten times a day, And now that you 'ave got it, Don't yer give it away--! ONE--TWO--ten times a day, When I was in the timid, orkard squad, boys." Alfred said solemnly: "I ain't one to deny that wars may come. And you were always a good fighter, Harry, but we are men o' peace." "Ay," said one of the group, "I never did fancy soldierin'." Alfred said slily: "William ain't yet forgiven a Hampshire redcoat who walked out and off, by Golly! with his girl." Having fired this shot, Alfred walked on. In his mind he turned over the thought of war, such a war as he, indeed, had never dreamed of in maddest nightmare. And the words and tune of the barrack-room ditty echoed through the cells of his brain. He wondered vaguely whether he could stick such dire discipline--ten times a day. Wouldn't he up and smite the sergeant to mother earth with his big fists, which clenched themselves at the mere thought of such a treadmill? Then he reflected comfortably that England's fleet sailed gloriously between him and such a possibility. The Squire belonged to the blue-water school. So did the Parson. Alfred muttered to himself: "They talk that way because they know no better, pore souls!" A carrier had other things to worry about. Approaching the Vicarage by the back way, he heard a woman's voice. He stood still. Tender modulations fluttered, like doves of peace, out of the pantry window. Alfred smiled. "'Tis she, the pretty dear! Talks and sings just like a throstle." CHAPTER II FANCY BROOMFIELD