"Mr Nanjivell!"

"Ma'am?"

"The postman, with a letter for you! I'll fetch it in, if you wish: but the poor fellow 'd like a clack, I can see."

It jumped to his tongue to bid her fetch and pa.s.s it in to him under the door. The outside of a letter would not tell her much, and anyhow would excite less curiosity than his own corporal envelope, begrimed as it was just now with dust and plaster and cobwebs.

But the end of her message alarmed him with misgivings more serious.

"Why should Lippity-Libby want a clack with him? . . . Just for gossip's sake?--or to convey a warning?" Lippity-Libby knew, or averred that he knew, the author of yesterday's anonymous letter. . . .

"Tell him I'll be out in a moment!"

Nicky-Nan beat his hands together softly to rid them of the worst of the plaster, then smoothed them briskly down his chest in a hasty effort to remove the cobwebs that clung there. The result--two d.a.m.ning smears on the front of his shirt--was discouraging.

He opened the door with great caution, peered out into the pa.s.sage, and found to his great relief that Mrs Penhaligon, that discreet woman, had withdrawn to her own premises.

He would have reconnoitred farther, but in the porch at the end of the pa.s.sage Lippity-Libby stood in plain view, with the street full of sunshine behind him. So Nicky-Nan contented himself with closing the door carefully and hasping it.

"If," began Lippity-Libby, "you go on gettin' letters at the rate o'

one a day, there's only two ways to it. Either you'll practise yourself not to keep the King's postman waitin', or you'll make it up afterwards in the shape of a Christmas-box. . . . I ought in fairness to tell you," Lippity-Libby added, "that there _is_ a third way-- though I hate the sight of it--and that's a letter-box with a slit in the door. Parson Steele has one. When I asked en why, he laughed an' talked foolish, an' said he'd put it up in self-defence. Now, what sort o' defence can a letter-box be to any man's house?

And that was six months afore the War, too!"

"Another letter for me?" Nicky-Nan hobbled forward, blinking against the sunlight.

"'Ho-Haitch-Hem-Hess'--that means 'On His Majesty Service'; post-mark, Troy. . . . Hullo!--anything wrong wi' the house?"

"Eh?"

"Plasterin' job?"

Nicky-Nan understood. "What's that to you?" he asked curtly.

"I don' know how it should happen," mused Lippity-Libby after a pause of dejection; "but the gettin' of letters seems to turn folks suspicious-like all of a sudden. You'd be surprised the number that puts me the very question you've just asked. An' they tell me that 'tis with money the same as with letters. I read a tract one time, about a man that found hisself rich of a sudden, and instead o'

callin' his naybours together an' sayin' 'Rejoice with me,' what d'ye think he went an' did?"

"Look here," said Nicky-Nan, eyeing the postman firmly. "If you're hidin' something behind this clack, I'll trouble you to out with it."

"If you don't _want_ the story, you shan't have it," said Lippity-Libby, aggrieved. "'Tis your loss, too; for it was full of instruction, an' had a moral at the end in different letterin'. . . .

You're upset this mornin', that's what you are: been up too early an'

workin' too hard at that plasterin' job, whatever it is." The little man limped back into the roadway and cricked his head back for a gaze up at the chimneys. "Nothing wrong on this side, seemin'ly. . . .

Nor, nor there wasn't any breeze o' wind in the night, not to wake me. . . . Anyways, you're a wonderful forgivin' man, Nicholas Nanjivell."

"Why so?"

"Why, to be up betimes an' workin' yourself cross, plasterin' at th'

old house, out o' which--if report's true--you'll be turned within a week."

"Don't you listen to reports; no, nor spread 'em. Here, hand me over my letter. . . . 'Turn me out,' will they? Go an' tell 'em they can't do it--not if they was to bring all the king's horses and all the king's men!"

"And _they_ be all gone to France. There! there! As I said to myself only last night as I got into bed--'What a thing is War!'

I said, 'an' o' what furious an' rummy things consistin'--marches to an' fro, short commons, shootin's of cannon, rapes, an' other bloodthirsty goin's-on; an' here we be in the midst thereof!

That's calkilated to make a man _think_.' . . . But I must say," said Lippity-Libby, eyeing the sky aloft, "the gla.s.s is goin' up stiddy, an' _that's_ always a comfort."

As the old man took his departure, Nicky-Nan broke the seal of his letter, opened it, and read--

To Nicholas Nanjivell, R.N.R., Polpier.

Troy, August 3rd, 1914.

I am advised that you have failed to join the Royal Naval Reserve Force called into Active Service under the Act 22 and 23 Vict. c. 40; nor have you reported yourself at the Custom-House, St Martin's, Cornwall, as required on the Active Service Paper, R.V. 53, duly delivered to you.

Before filling up your description on Form R.V. 26a (R.N.R.

Absentees and Deserters) I desire that you will let me know the cause of your non-compliance with H.M. summons; and, if the cause be sickness or other disablement, that you will forward a medical certificate _immediately_, as evidence of same, to

Joshua Johns, Registrar, Royal Naval Reserve.

CHAPTER VIII.

BUSINESS AS USUAL.

"Business as usual!" said Mr Pamphlett heartily to his clerk Mr Hendy, as he let himself in at 9.40 by the side door of the Bank.

Mr Hendy lived on the premises, which his wife served as caretaker, with a "help" to do the scrubbing.

Mr Hendy, always punctual, stood ready in the pa.s.sage, awaiting his master. He received Mr Pamphlett's top-hat and walking-stick, helped him off with his black frock-coat, helped him on with the light alpaca jacket in which during the hot weather Mr Pamphlett combined banking with comfort.

"Business as usual!" said Mr Pamphlett, slipping into the alpaca.

"That's the motto. Old England's sound, Hendy!"

"Yes, sir: leastways, I hope so."

"Sound as a bell. 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 it, holding as we do so many--er--threads?" Mr Pamphlett held up his two hands, and spread them as though they contained a skein of wool to be unwound. "But the Chancellor of the Exchequer took steps.

Opposed as I am in a general way to the present Government, I am free to admit that, at this juncture, the Chancellor of the Exchequer realised his responsibilities and--er--took steps. Markets may--er-- fluctuate for some weeks to come--may, as I would put it, exhibit a certain amount of--er--unsteadiness. But we shall tide that over, easily--as I am advised, quite easily. Great Britain's credit is solid; that's the word, _solid_: and if that--er--solidarity holds true of our monetary system with"--here Mr Pamphlett expanded and contracted his fingers as if gathering gossamers--"its delicate and far-reaching complexities. . . That was an excellent duck, James,"

said he, turning to his brother-in-law. "I don't remember when I've tasted a better."

"Maria believes in basting, I thank G.o.d," said his brother-in-law, Farmer Pearce acknowledging the compliment. "'Tis a more enterprisin' life you lead by the sea, if your business calls you that way. You pick up more money--which is everything in these days--and you see the ships and yachts going to and fro, and so forth. But you can't breed ducks for table. Once they get nigh to tidal water, though it be but to the head of a creek, the flesh turns fishy, and you can't prevent it. We must set it down to Natur', I suppose. But inland ducks for me!"