Peak?” asked Un’ Benny Rowett later in the day.  “A Cap’n Something-or-other,” answered Seth; “I didn’t catch his full name.”  “Walked over from Troy, I s’pose?  Queer how these ship-cap’ns enjoy stretchin’ their legs after a passage—­the furriners especially.  But there! ’tis nat’ral.”  “He wasn’ a ship-cap’n.”  “What? a mine-cap’n?—­ay, to be sure, that accounts for the colour of his clothes. . . .  Out o’ work, was he?  There’s been a lot o’ distress down in the Minin’ District lately.”  “You’re wrong again,” said Seth:  “he’s a gun-sojer, or so he told me.”  “What, an army-cap’n? . . .  But I oft to ha’ guessed.  Come to think, he didn’ look scarcely more ’n that.”

Polpier, indeed, had not seen a troop of soldiers since the Napoleonic era, when (as has been related) the Old Doctor raised a company of Volunteer Artillery.  Here we were, after more than a hundred years, at war again for what the newspapers called “our national existence”; and behold within five days Polpier had become a centre of military activity!  The people, who during those five days had talked more about the career of arms and those who followed it than in five decades before, had insensibly—­or, at least, without sense of inconsistency—­passed from amused contempt to a lively interest, even though in speech they kept to the old tone of light cynicism.  Nor was this tone affected to cover a right-about-face; it simply meant that a habit of speech could not quite so quickly as a habit of thought adapt itself to retreat.

Of a sudden, and almost before it could own to this nascent interest, Polpier found itself flattered and exalted to military importance.  That Sunday afternoon the whole town pretermitted its afternoon nap and flocked up past the Warren to view the camp.  As Miss Oliver observed, “It was an object-lesson:  it brought home some of the realities of war to you.”

“Some,” agreed Mrs Polsue.  “If I was you, dear, I wouldn’ gush over such things, but rather pray the Lord against sendin’ too many of ’em.  It wouldn’ altogether surprise me,” she added darkly, “if the after-consequences of this was worse than any Revival Meetin’.”

The O.C. had very wisely let it be known that, though in future it would be necessary to draw lines about his encampment, station guards, and allow entrance only by written permit, on this first day the public were welcome to roam among the tents and satisfy their curiosity.  His company might be stationed here for some months to come, and he wished to start on neighbourly terms.  He had been told, moreover, that Polpier as a recruiting-ground was virgin soil.  His sappers were instructed, therefore, to make every one welcome, and especially any likely-looking young men who asked questions or otherwise showed an interest.

Curiously enough—­and strangely, unless you know Polpier and West-country people—­it was the likely-looking young men who hung back and showed least interest that afternoon.  A few of them who had sweethearts were jealous, perhaps:  it is not pleasant when the girl you love suddenly abstracts from you the Sunday attention on which you have come to count and transfers it enthusiastically—­even if generally—­to a number of young strangers, artlessly surrendering to a certain glamour in them because they are doing what never occurred to you.