Yes, . . . in the man or woman who had written this letter he had an enemy who indeed wished him worse off than he was, and not only worse but much worse; who would take from him not only the roof over his head, but even the dreadful refuge of the Workhouse; who would hunt him down even into jail.  That talk about his not going to the War was all nonsense.  How could all the Coastguard or Custom-house Officers in Christendom force a man to go to the War with a growth under his thigh as big as your fist?  Damn the War!—­he’d scarcely given a thought to it (being so worried with other matters) until last night.  He hadn’t a notion, at this moment, what it was all about.  But anyhow that stuff about “want of pluck” was silly nonsense,—­almost too silly to vex a man.  He would have gone fast enough had he been able.  In truth, Nicky-Nan’s conscience had no nerve to be stung by imputations of cowardliness.  He had never thought of himself as a plucky man—­it wasn’t worth while, and, for that matter, he wasn’t worth while.  He had, without considering it, always found himself able to take risks alongside of the other fellows.  Moreover, what did he amount to, with his destinies, hopes, and belongings all told, to be chary of losing them or himself?

But it was a fact, as the letter hinted, that some years ago, and for two successive seasons, the Reservists’ training happening to fall at a time when fish was plentiful and all hands making money, he, with one or two other men, had conspired with a knavish Chief Officer of Coastguard to put a fraudulent trick on the Government.  It was the Chief Officer who actually played the trick, entering them up as having served a course which they had never attended, and he had kept their training pay as his price.  What his less guilty conspirators gained was the retention of their names on the strength, to qualify them in due time for their pensions.

This and other abuses of the old system had been abolished when the Admiralty decided that every reservist must put in his annual spell of training at sea.  The trick at the time had lain heavily upon Nicky-Nan’s conscience:  but with time he had forgotten it.  Since the new order came into force, he had fulfilled his obligations regularly enough—­until the year before last, by which time his leg really disabled him.  It had fortuned, however, that one afternoon on the Quay, loafing around less on the chance of a job (for odd jobs are scarce at Polpier) than to wile away time, he had encountered Dr Mant, the easy-going practitioner from St Martin’s.  Dr Mant fancying an excursion after the mackerel, at that time swarming close inshore, Nicky-Nan had rowed him out and back along the coast to St Martin’s.  The bargain struck for half-a-crown, the doctor sent his trap back by road.

Some way out at sea he inquired, “Hullo! what’s wrong with that right knee of yours?”

“Ricked it,” answered Nicky-Nan mendaciously, and added, “I was thinkin’ to consult you, sir.  I be due for trainin’ with the Reserve in a fortni’t’s time.”