minutes." He paid Nicky-Nan the attention of a glance--no more.

While Penhaligon was away, kissing his wife and family and bidding
them farewell (good man!) in tones unnaturally confident and
robustious, the last brake rattled up to the bridge-end with a
clatter. The whole town had assembled by this time, a group about
each cheerful hero.

It was a scene that those who witnessed it remembered through many
trying days to come. They knew not at all why their country should
be at war. Over the harbour lay the usual Sabbath calm: high on the
edge of the uplands stood the outposts of the corn, yellowing to
harvest: over all the assured God of their fathers reigned in the
August heaven. Not a soul present had ever harboured one malevolent
thought against a single German. Yet the thing had happened: and
here, punctually summoned, the men were climbing on board the brakes,
laughing, rallying their friends left behind--all going to slay
Germans.

The Custom-house Officer moved about from one brake to another,
calling out names and distributing blue papers. "Nicholas
Nanjivell!"

There was a shout of laughter as Nicky-Nan put his best face upon it
and limped forward. "Why, the man's no use. Look at his leg!"
The young officer scanned Nicky, suspiciously at first.

"Well, you'll have to take your paper anyway," said he--and Nicky
took it. "You'd best see the doctor and get a certificate."