Nicky-Nan and his host ate in a constrained silence.  Nicky, though ravenous, behaved politely, and only accepted a fifth egg under strong pressure.

“Curious caper, this o’ Germany’s,” said Mr Penhaligon, by way of making conversation.  “But our Navy’s all right.”

“Sure,” Nicky-Nan agreed.

“I’ve been studyin’ the papers, though—­off an’ on.  The Kaiser’s been layin’ up for this, these years past:  and by my reck’nin’ ’tis goin’ to be a long business. . . .  I don’t tell the Missus that, you’ll understand?  But I’d take it friendly if you kept an eye on ‘em, as a naybour. . . .  O’ course ’tis settled we must clear out from here.”

“I don’t see it,” said Nicky-Nan, pursing his lips.

“Pamphlett’s a strong man.  What he wants he thinks he’s bound to have—­same as these Germans.”

“He won’t, then:  nor they neither.”

“Tis a pity about your leg, anyway,” said Mr Penhaligon sympathetically, and stared about the room.  “Life’s a queer business,” he went on after a pause, his eyes fixed on the old beam whence the key depended.  “To think that I be eatin’ the last meal in this old kitchen.  An’ yet so many have eaten meals here an’ warmed theirselves in their time.  Yet all departed afore us! . . .  But anyway you’ll be hereabouts:  an’ that’ll be a cheerin’ kind o’ thought, o’ lonely nights—­that you’ll be hereabouts, with your eye on ’em.”

He lit a pipe and, whilst puffing at it, pricked up his ears to the sound of wheels down the street.  The brakes were arriving at the bridge-end.  He suggested that—­his own kit being ready—­they should stroll down together for a look.  Nicky-Nan did not dare to refuse.

The young Custom-house Officer, as he caught sight of Penhaligon approaching in uniform, slipped down from the parapet of the bridge, and sorted out his summons from the pile of blue papers in his hand.

“That’s all right, my billy,” Penhaligon assured him.  “Don’t want no summons, more’n word that His Majesty has a use for me.”

“Your allotment paper’ll be made out when you get to St Martin’s, or else aboard ship.”

“Right.  A man takes orders in these days.”

“But go back and fetch your kit,” advised the Chief Officer of Coastguard, who had strolled up.  “The brake’ll be arriving in ten minutes.”  He paid Nicky-Nan the attention of a glance—­no more.

While Penhaligon was away, kissing his wife and family and bidding them farewell (good man!) in tones unnaturally confident and robustious, the last brake rattled up to the bridge-end with a clatter.  The whole town had assembled by this time, a group about each cheerful hero.

It was a scene that those who witnessed it remembered through many trying days to come.  They knew not at all why their country should be at war.  Over the harbour lay the usual Sabbath calm:  high on the edge of the uplands stood the outposts of the corn, yellowing to harvest:  over all the assured God of their fathers reigned in the August heaven.  Not a soul present had ever harboured one malevolent thought against a single German.  Yet the thing had happened:  and here, punctually summoned, the men were climbing on board the brakes, laughing, rallying their friends left behind—­all going to slay Germans.