So Mr Pamphlett, knowing there must be War, had clean forgotten the Ejectment Order, until Nicky-Nan inopportunely reminded him of it; and in his forgetfulness, being testy with overwork, had threatened execution on Monday—­which would be the 3rd:  August Bank Holiday, and a dies non.

Somehow Nicky-Nan had forgotten this too.  It did not occur to him until after he had supped on boiled potatoes with a touch of butter, pepper and salt, washed down with water, a drink he abhorred.  When it occurred to him, he smote his thigh and was rewarded with a twinge of pain.

He had all Sunday and all Monday in which to lay his plans before the final evacuation, if evacuation there must be.  The enemy had miscalculated.  He figured it out two or three times over, made sure he was right, and went to bed in his large gaunt bedroom with a sense of triumph.

Between now and Tuesday a great many things might happen.

A great many things were, in fact, happening.  Among them, Europe—­ wire answering wire—­was engaged in declaring general War.

Nicky-Nan, stretched in the four-post bed which had been the Old Doctor’s, recked nothing of this.  But his leg gave him considerable pain that night, He slept soon, but ill, and awoke before midnight to the sound—­as it seemed—­of sobbing.  Something was wrong with the Penhaligon’s children?  Yet no . . . the sound seemed to come rather from the chamber where Mr and Mrs Penhaligon slept. . . .  It ceased, and he dropped off to sleep again.

Oddly enough he awoke—­not having given it a thought before—­with a scare of War upon him.

In his dream he had been retracing accurately and in detail a small scene of the previous morning, at the moment quite without significance for him.  Limping back from his cliff-patch with a basket of potatoes in one hand and with the other using the shaft of his mattock (or “visgy” in Polpier language) for a walking-staff, as he passed the watch-house he had been vaguely surprised to find coastguardsman Varco on the look-out there with his glass, and halted.

“Hallo, Bill Varco!  Wasn’t it you here yesterday?  Or has my memory lost count ‘pon the days o’ the week?”

“It’s me, right enough,” said Varco; “an’ no one but Peter Hosken left with me, to take turn an’ turn about.  They’ve called the others up to Plymouth.”

“But why?” Nicky-Nan had asked:  and the coastguardsman had responded: 

“You can put two an’ two together, neighbour.  Add ’em up as you please.”

The scene and the words, repeated through his dream, came back now very clearly to him.

“But when a man’s in pain and nervous,” he told himself, “the least little thing bulks big in his mind.”  War?  They couldn’t really mean it. . . .  That scare had come and had passed, almost a score of times. . . .  Well, suppose it was War? . . . that again might be the saving of him.  Folks mightn’t be able to serve Ejectment Orders in time of War. . . .  Besides, now he came to think of it, back in the week there had been some panic in the banks, and some talk of a law having been passed by which debts couldn’t be recovered in a hurry.  And, anyway, Mr Pamphlett had forgotten about Bank Holiday.  There was no hurry before Tuesday . . .