"Drunk _and_ disorderly!" exclaimed Uncle, raising his voice so that others might hear. "What would Squire say, if so be as you came afore the Bench?" Saint was perfectly sober and smugly self-possessed. "You couldn't down me this morning." "I be willing to try," said Uncle, perceiving that he had room for side-stepping. "You takes your coat off and I takes off mine, and we goes at it, here and now, slam-bang." Saint declined this cordial invitation. He scowled at Uncle, and went his way. Next Sunday Mrs. Yellam's responses were half a second ahead of the congregation. On the Saturday Fancy had received a long letter from Alfred. He was out of the danger zone again, and in a rest camp with his men, who "groused" at "fatigues" imposed upon them unreasonably. Alfred reported himself sound of left arm, and, as usual, "in the pink." William Saint did not attend Divine Service, thinking, possibly, that a large strip of plaster across his head might distract the attention of the congregation. In this he was needlessly thoughtful, inasmuch as everybody in the parish knew what had happened in the sanded tap-room, and acclaimed Uncle as the true sire of a valorous son. Uncle sat in his pew, as upright as Mrs. Yellam, inviting inspection with an upward cock of one eyebrow, as much as to say: "Look at me, neighbours. Not a mark on me!" You may be sure that the Squire had the epic pat from the lips of Captain Davenant, to whom Uncle had recited it when shooting in the New Forest. More, the Captain made it clear to the Autocrat how insidiously Alfred Yellam had been undermined by "Mr. Sinner." Finally, it was decided between them that William Saint would serve his country to better advantage away from Nether-Applewhite, and the Squire, gravely affected by Susan Yellam's troubles, swore that he would personally see to it that Alfred's carrying business should be resurrected. On Monday morning, Mrs. Yellam, upon arrival at the Court, was informed that Sir Geoffrey wished to see her in his room. For a terrible moment, she feared that the Squire might be about to break bad news of Alfred. A glance at his jolly face reassured her. "Sit you down, Susan. Make yourself comfortable. What about a glass of port?" Mrs. Yellam associated port with funerals. She declined any liquid refreshment, very politely. The Squire stood upon the hearth-rug, beneath the portrait of his father, and thrust his hands in his breeches' pockets. "Now, Susan, where is Alfred's 'bus?" "In Salisbury, Sir Geoffrey." "Out of dry dock? Ready for the road--um?" "I believe so, Sir Geoffrey, but Willum Saint has the business; and I don't know where to turn for a man." "That's going to be my affair. I should have made it my affair, if you had come to me without my sending for you. Alfred has been treated abominably. All the facts never reached my ears till yesterday, when I heard about Uncle and the tankard." He laughed, and Susan laughed with him. The Squire waxed confidential.