"'Biades," answered 'Beida, with a tragical face.

"Han't I heard your mother warn 'ee a score o' times, against lettin'
that cheeld play loose on the Quay! . . . What's happened to 'en?
Broke his tender neck, I shouldn' wonder. . . . Here, let me have a
look--"

"Broke his tender fiddle-stick!" 'Beida retorted. "He's bleedin' for
his country, is 'Biades, if you really want to know; and if you was
helpful you'd lend us that knife o' yours."

"What for, missy?"

"Why, to take off the injured limb. 'Bert's knife's no good since
the fore-part o' the week, when he broke the blade prizin' up limpets
an' never guessing how soon this War'd be upon us."

"I did," maintained 'Bert. "I was gettin' in food supplies."

"If I was you, my dears, I'd leave such unholy games alone,"
Nicky-Nan advised them. "No, and I'll not lend 'ee my knife,
neither. You don't know what War is, children: an' please God you
never will. War's not declared yet--not by England, anyway.
Don't 'ee go to seek it out until it seeks _you_."

"But 'tis comin'," 'Beida persisted. "Father was talkin' with Mother
last night--he didn' go out with the boats: and 'Bert and I both
heard him say--didn' we, 'Bert?--'twas safe as to-morrow's sun.
The way we heard was that Mother'd forgot to order us to bed; which
hasn't happened not since Coronation Night an' the bonfire. When she