There was a sudden stir in the crowd at the back, and young Obed Pearce came thrusting his way through the press.

“Well—­I don’t care who laughs, but I’m one!” growled young Obed, half defiantly, half sullenly, and tossed his cap on to the platform like a challenger in a wrestling ring.

“And I’m another!” announced the clear quiet voice of Seth Minards, thrilling the room as the hush fell.

“Aw, ’tis Seth!” “Seth’s a beautiful speaker once he gets goin’.”  “But what’s the meanin’?” “Seth, of all the boys!” “Let Seth speak!”

“Ha!  What did I promise you?” proclaimed Mr Boult triumphantly, reaching down a hand.  “Here, clamber up to the platform, my lad, an’ give ’em a talk. . . .  You can talk, they’re saying.  Strike while the iron’s hot.”

Seth took his hand and vaulted to the platform; but dropped it on the instant and turned to the meeting.  “I come here, friends,” he announced, “because Mr Obed’s offered himself, an’ I don’t see no way but I must go too. . . .  That’s it:  I don’t agree wi’ the ha’af that’s been said to-night, but I don’t see no other way.  We’ve got to go, because—­” his voice sank here, as though he were communing with himself:  it could scarcely be heard, “—­because—­” he swung about upon the elders on the platform and swept them with an accusing finger.  “We’ve got to go because you’ve brought this thing about, or have let it come about!  It don’t matter to me, much. . . .  But we’ve to wipe up the mess:  an’ if the young men must go an’ wipe it up, an’ if for them there’s never to be bride-ale nor children, ‘tis your doin’ an’ the doin’ o’ your generation all over Europe.  A pretty tale, too, when up to a fortni’t ago your talk was o’ peace an’ righteousness! . . .  Forgi’e me, Mr Best . . .  I’ll fight well enough, maybe, when it comes to’t.  But why were we brought up one way, to be tortured turnin’ our conscience to another?”

There were no other recruits.  “A great disappointment,” said Mr Boult.  “That earnest young fool spoilt it all.”

“He made the best speech of the evening,” answered the Vicar.

“Well, anyway he’s enlisted.  He’ll find the Army a fine discipline for the tongue.”

“Indeed,” said the Vicar viciously.  “I did not know that you had experience of the Service.”

As Seth Minards thrust his way out of the insufferably stuffy room, in the porchway he felt a hand laid on his shoulder; and, turning about, recognised Nicky-Nan by the dim starlight.

“God bless ’ee, my son!” said Nicky heartily, to his utter surprise.  “I can’t stay to talk now, havin’ to force my way in an’ catch Dr Mant.  But maybe we’ll both be seein’ this War from to-morrow; an’ maybe we’ll meet in it, or maybe we will not.  But you’ve let in light ‘pon an older skull than your own; an’ I thank ‘ee, an’ I’ll pray th’ Almighty every night on my knees that you may fight well an’ be preserved through it all, to come home an’ testify.”