Uncle smiled. Such a smile might have been seen upon the face of Ulysses after his wanderings, when Penelope asked foolish question. "Mother, I've seen they mighty ships o' war, which is what you can't brag on. But more'n our Fleet were wanted afore, in the days o' Bonaparty, and will be again. You mind that bit o' pork, and leave young Garge to me." He gave undivided attention to George; the pleasant smile faded from his face. His likeness to his sister came out. "Be you afeard, Garge?" George pulled himself together. "I be bold as brass, except wi' maids." "That any son o' mine should own up to that! Afeard wi' maids! What a gert booby! I be afeard _for_ maids, if so be as they Proosians come rampin' into France. And 'tis true they be over the line a'ready." "How do 'ee know that?" asked his wife. "Never you mind, Mother. I picks up my information as you does, here and there. I told Master Lionel as how France was invaded, and he gave me half-a-crown, he did." Uncle produced the half-crown as confirmation strong. George was much impressed. "You earns money in wondersome ways, Father." "I do. Now, Garge, I tell 'ee, fair and square, the likes o' you'll be wanted bad, and, mark my words, my lad, if you don't go willin' they'll take 'ee whether or no. I forgot to mention it to Master Lionel, but talk o' conscription be in the air." "Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Mucklow. Uncle, fully alive to the advantage of leaving people to chew the cud of his wisdom, went outside to smoke a pipe before supper. He walked down the village street, carrying a high head and assuming the port of Mars. Bugles sounded in his ears, and the steady tramp of marching men. He had picked up the significant and terrifying word "conscription" from Captain Davenant, who asked for nothing better. Uncle had agreed with the Captain heartily, being very sensible of what drill had accomplished for himself, much as he hated it at the time. He thought of George as clay to the hand of a sergeant, not as cannon fodder. "Afeard wi' maids!" What a confession! He was not in the mood to engage others in talk, lumping all his neighbours together as a flock of silly snivelling sheep, sadly in need of a shepherd. For the first time in his life he paid the penalty of being a prophet, and felt strangely alone and unhonoured. Suddenly he bethought him of his sister Susan. He had half-an-hour to spare before supper. She would be busy in her kitchen, but never too busy to exchange a word with him. Alfred would be still on the road. He strode along more briskly. Susan was the one person living with whom Uncle was really himself, at best or worst a very simple, straightforward soul. He had never posed before her and--what a tribute to her character!--in her rather austere presence he avoided those whimsical perversions of the truth which so exasperated his wife. To a woman of brains he bowed the knee. Also, he was gratefully aware of Susan's enduring affection for him.