ry
pair of sea-boots, Yarmouth-made, off some Stores on the Barbican,
an' handed 'em over to Billy to pickle in some sort o' grease that's
a secret of his own to make the leather supple an' keep it from
perishin'. He've gone down to fetch 'em; an' there's no
Sabbath-breakin' in a deed like that, when a man's country calls en."

"'Tis terrible sudden, all this," said Nicky-Nan, ruminating.

"'Tis worse than sudden. Here we be, with orders to clear out before
Michaelmas: and how be I to do that, with my man away? Think of all
the great lerrupin' furnicher to be shifted an' (what's harder)
stowed in a pokey little cottage that wasn' none too big for Aun'
Bunney when she lived. An' sixteen steps up to the door, with a turn
in 'em! Do 'ee mind what a Dover-to-pay there was gettin' out the
poor soul's coffin? An' then look at the size of my dresser. . . ."

"I can't think why you turn out, for my part. Pamphlett's served me
with notice to quit by to-morra. You don't catch me, though."

"Why, Mr Nanjivell, you won't set yourself up to fly in the teeth of
the law!"

"Just you wait. . . . And Pamphlett doesn' know all the law that's in
the land, neither, if he reckons to turn me out 'pon a Bank Holiday."

Mrs Penhaligon stared. "Well, I s'wow! Bank Holiday to-morra, and
I'd clean forgot it! . . . But, with the Lord's Sabbath standin' 'pon
its head, 'tis excusable. The children, now--out an' runnin' the
town in the Sunday clothes with never a thought o' breakfast; and how
I'm to get their boots an' faces clean in time for Chapel, let alone
washin'-up, I ask you!"

"Well, I'll go upstairs an' get a shave," said Nicky-Nan.
"_That_'ll feel like Sunday anyhow."

"Poor lonely creatur'!" thought Mrs Penhaligon, who always pitied
bachelors. On an impulse she said, "An' when you've done, Mr
Nanjivell, there'll be fried eggs an' bacon, if you're not above
acceptin' the compliment for once."

When Nicky-Nan came downstairs again, clean-shaven and wearing his
Sunday suit of threadbare sea-cloth, he found the Penhaligon children
seated at the board, already plying their spoons in bowls of
bread-and-milk. As a rule, like other healthy children, they ate
first and talked afterwards. But to-day, with War in the air, they
chattered, stirring the sop around and around. 'Beida's eyes were
bright and her cheeks flushed.

"War's a funny thing," she mused. "Where do _you_ feel it, Mother?"

"Don't clacky so much, that'