every
evening he would return to Ramstairs, not to the carpet slippers and
the comforts of home, but to the brassard and the rigorous routine of
the drill-hall.

And the little drill-hall was filled with the noise of war as the Men
of Kent marched hither and thither, lashed by the caustic tongue of
the Territorial sergeant, with all the enthusiasm of the early Saxons
who flocked to HAROLD'S standard in order to repel the Danes.

For Mr. Coaster was as great a patriot as any of the old Saxons. In a
burst of enthusiasm he joined the Special Constables; in an explosion
of wrath, following the bombardment of Scarborough, he enlisted in the
Kentish Fencibles, and in a wave of self-sacrifice he enrolled himself
in the Old Veterans' Fire Brigade. And he had badges upon each lapel
of his coat and several dotted all over his waistcoat.

He belonged to a noble company of patriots. All true Men of Kent who
were past the fighting age joined one or other of these institutions,
but luckily not more than one.

On a certain fatal night a general alarm was given. In due course a
notification of it was conveyed to Ramstairs, and instantaneously the
members of the Special Constabulary, the Kentish Fencibles and the
Veterans' Fire Brigade were summoned from their beds. Then did Mr.
Coaster realise his terrible position. Since he belonged to all three,
to which of them should he now report? After some agonising moments of
doubt he hung up his three types of headgear upon the hat-stand and,
shutting his eyes, he twirled himself round twice and made a grab at
them. His hand touched the helmet of the Veterans' Fire Brigade. Fate
had decided. Seizing his fireman's axe he rushed off down the street.

The result of this was inevitable. He was dismissed with ignominy
from the Special Constables and was condemned to death, with a
recommendation to mercy, by a court-martial of the Kentish Fencibles.
His old friends among the Men of Kent cut him dead; the tradesmen of
his platoon refused to serve him. He had to leave Ramstairs and he
retired to Ealing. The catastrophe ruined his health. But he still
gets a little solace when, as he wipes the tears from his eyes after
reading the correspondence column of his penny paper, he sees upon his
waistcoat the crossed axes surmounted by a fire bucket, the emblem of
the Veterans' Fire Brigade.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Aunt (guardian of little nephew who has run away)_.