“Lor sake!” said he, hastily shutting and pocketing his knife.  “What you got there?”

“’Biades,” answered ’Beida, with a tragical face.

“Han’t I heard your mother warn ‘ee a score o’ times, against lettin’ that cheeld play loose on the Quay! . . .  What’s happened to ’en?  Broke his tender neck, I shouldn’ wonder. . . .  Here, let me have a look—­”

“Broke his tender fiddle-stick!” ‘Beida retorted.  “He’s bleedin’ for his country, is ’Biades, if you really want to know; and if you was helpful you’d lend us that knife o’ yours.”

“What for, missy?”

“Why, to take off the injured limb.  ’Bert’s knife’s no good since the fore-part o’ the week, when he broke the blade prizin’ up limpets an’ never guessing how soon this War’d be upon us.”

“I did,” maintained ‘Bert.  “I was gettin’ in food supplies.”

“If I was you, my dears, I’d leave such unholy games alone,” Nicky-Nan advised them.  “No, and I’ll not lend ’ee my knife, neither.  You don’t know what War is, children:  an’ please God you never will.  War’s not declared yet—­not by England, anyway.  Don’t ’ee go to seek it out until it seeks you.”

“But ’tis comin’,” ‘Beida persisted.  “Father was talkin’ with Mother last night—­he didn’ go out with the boats:  and ’Bert and I both heard him say—­didn’ we, ’Bert?—­’twas safe as to-morrow’s sun.  The way we heard was that Mother’d forgot to order us to bed; which hasn’t happened not since Coronation Night an’ the bonfire.  When she came up to blow out the light she’d been cryin’. . . .  That’s because Father’ll have to fight, o’ course.”

“I wish they’d put it off till I was a man,” said ’Bert stoutly.

At this point the wounded hero behaved as he always did on discovering life duller than his hopes.  He let out a piercing yell and cried that he wanted his tea.  ’Beida dropped her end of the ambulance, seized him as he slid to the ground, shook him up, and told him to behave.

“You can’t have your tea for another hour:  and what’s more, if you’re not careful there won’t be no amputation till afterwards, when Mother’s not lookin’ an’ we can get a knife off the table.  You bad boy!”

’Biades howled afresh.

“If you don’t stop it,”—­’Bert took a hand in threatening,—­ “you won’t get cut open till Monday; because ’tis Sunday to-morrow.  And by that time you’ll be festerin’, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“—­And mortification will have set in,” promised his sister.  “When that happens, you may turn up your toes.  An’ ’tis only a question between oak an’ elum.”

’Biades ceased yelling as abruptly as he had started.  “What’s ’fester’?” he demanded.

“You’ll know fast enough, when you find yourself one solid scab,” began ’Bert.  But Nicky-Nan interrupted.

“There, there, children!  Run along an’ don’t ee play at trouble.  There’s misery enough, the Lord knows—­” He broke off on a twinge of pain, and stared down-stream at the congregated masts in the little harbour.