noticin' it till they're gone." All the children had departed--the
happy little Wesleyans to climb on board the waggons, the small
Church of England minority to watch them, and solace their envy with
expectation of their own Treat, a more select one, promised for
this-day-fortnight. Then would be _their_ turn, and some people
would live to be sorry that they went to Chapel. But a fortnight is
a long time, and weather in the West is notoriously uncertain.
Of course you cannot eat your cake and have it: but Mrs Penhaligon
arrived just in time to stop a fight between 'Bert and Matthey
Matthew's ugly boy, who sang in the Church choir, and hoped it would
rain. (_Odium theologicum_.)

The most of the mothers had departed also, either to "assist" at the
Treat or to watch the embarkation: while those of the men whom the
War had not claimed had tramped it over to Troy, which six weeks
ago--and long before the idea of a European War had occurred to any
one--had advertised a small regatta for Bank Holiday, with an
afternoon's horse-racing.

The tunding of the drum up the valley seemed to Nicky-Nan to
emphasise the loneliness all about him. But down by the Quay-head he
came in sight of Policeman Rat-it-all (so named from his only and
frequent expletive), seated on a bollard and staring up at the sky.

Nicky-Nan hesitated: hung, indeed, for a moment, on the edge of
flight. This was Bank Holiday, and until to-morrow's sunrise a
constable was powerless as Satan in a charmed circle. Still, the man
might have the ejectment order in his pocket--would, if not already
furnished with it, almost certainly know about it. On the other hand
there was a chance--it might be worth while--to discover how much