. It's money will put us through this, Hendy, as it
always has. We mayn't wear uniforms"--Mr Pamphlett smoothed down the
alpaca over his stomach--"but we're the real sinews of this War."

Mr Hendy--a slight middle-aged man, with fluffy straw-coloured hair
which he grew long above his ears, to compensate for the baldness of
his cranium--answered that he was glad Mr Pamphlett took it in so
hearty a fashion, but for his part, if it wasn't for the Missus, he
was dying to enlist and have a slap at the Germans. Mr Pamphlett
laughed and entered his private office. Here every morning he dealt
with his correspondence; while Hendy, in the main room of the Bank,
unlocked the safe, fetched out the ready cash and the ledgers, and
generally made preparations before opening the door for business on
the stroke of ten.

Five or six letters awaited Mr Pamphlett. One he recognised by
envelope and handwriting as a missive from headquarters: and he
opened it first, wondering a little, pausing, as he broke the seal,
to examine the post-marks. "Yesterday had been Bank Holiday. . . .
But, to be sure, in these times the Head Office would very likely be
neglecting Bank Holidays, the clerks working at high pressure. . . ."

But no: the London post-mark bore date "Aug. 1." The letter had been
received and delivered at Polpier on the 2nd, and had been lying in
the bank letter-box for two whole days. He broke the seal in some
trepidation: for he had spent the last sixty hours or so of national
emergency on a visit with Mrs Pamphlett to her brother-in-law, a
well-to-do farmer, who dwelt some twelve miles inland. Here Mr
Pamphlett, after punctual and ample meals, had gently stimulated
digestion with hot brandy-and-water (which never comes amiss, even in
August, if you happen to be connected with farming and have duly kept
the Sabbath), and had sat with one leg crossed over the other,
exchanging--rather by his composed bearing than in actual words--
confidence in Britain's financial stability against confidence in her
agriculture. His presence had somewhat eased a trying situation at
Lawhilly Farm, where his young fool of a nephew--an only son, too--
fired by the war, had gone so far as to distress his parents with
talk of enlisting.

"Business as usual!" had been Mr Pamphlett's advice to the young man.
"There was, for a day or two--I won't deny it--a certain--er--
tendency to what I may call _nervousness_ in the City. Can we wonder
at