"I'm walking out with Jemima Pavey, a very respectable young woman." "What does Jemima Pavey say about it?" "She thinks with me, sir. Most of us think the same, as we ain't ready to go to furrin' parts. If the Kayser invades Old England, I'm ready to shoulder gun, stand behind a tree, as brave as my neighbours, and take a true shot at 'un." Sir Geoffrey stared at him. Did all the young men in his beloved village think this? And, if so, how was Authority going to deal with such a lot of damned fools? He said slowly: "Has it occurred to you, my lad, that if able-bodied men like you refuse to enlist willingly, they will be made to do so? Willy-nilly----!" "Ah-h-h, you're talking of conscription, sir. Old England won't never stand that. 'Tis devilish Proosianism, so they tell me." "Who has told you that? Answer me!" "I have heard William Saint say so." Sir Geoffrey suppressed an oath. That William Saint, a former servant of his own, a tenant, a trusted friend, b'Jove! should so poison men's minds at such a time seemed incredible. If this were true, the world was indeed upside down. He fidgeted in his chair; his face flushed; wrath bubbled within him. He began to despair of his fellow-countrymen. However, he choked down his rising rage and said freezingly: "You can go, sir." "Where to?" "Back to your work for the present." William Busketts retreated, slightly moithered, but more at ease. He had expected an explosion, followed by the "sack." Sir Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, sorely discomfited. It would be pleasant to record that happier fortune awaited him in his stables, in his gardens, and at the Home Farm; but truth will leap from her well on rare occasions. Out of all the young men interviewed upon this memorable morning, young men more or less dependent upon the will and whim of their interlocutor, only one promised to enlist forthwith. The others touched their caps, bobbed their heads, and professed themselves willing to do anything except bear arms for their country. Luncheon at Pomfret Court, accordingly, was not a very cheery meal. The Squire sat silent and abstracted; the troubles in his brain upset his appetite. In the afternoon, he called upon Captain Davenant, whom he found apoplectic with indignation. The Captain had a modest establishment, but he had discharged two men who--so the Captain affirmed--preferred to guzzle ale when a unique opportunity for sticking pig was held out to them. "Country's rotten," concluded the Captain. "It may be saved by the gentlemen, by God! sir, but not by our yokels." The Squire protested against this, saying, mildly for him: "Perhaps, Davenant, our methods are at fault." "That be damned!" roared the Captain. "Well, well, it's fairly obvious that so far our recruiting campaign has not been an overwhelming success. Hamlin means to have a go at 'em on Sunday. I haven't a notion how he'll tackle the job, but there it is. What is your opinion of William Saint?"