“I never rose to the height o’ puttin’ myself into the enemy’s mind,” retorted Un’ Benny; “which they tell me, in the newspapers, is the greatest art o’ warfare.  I be a modest man, content with understandin’ pilchards; and if you’d ever taken that trouble, Zack Mennear—­Boo-oom! there it goes again!—­you’d know that, soon as they hear gunfire, or feel it—­for their senses don’t tally with mine, or even with yours—­plumb deep the fish sink.  Th’ Old Doctor used to preach that, when sunk, they headed back for Americy; but seein’ as they sunk, and out o’ reach o’ net, I never could see the matter was worth pursooin’.  The point is, you an’ me’ll find ourselves poorer men by Christmas.  And that’s War, and it hits us men o’ peace both ways.  Boo-oom!—­plunk goes one hundred pounds o’ money to the bottom o’ the sea; an’ close after it goes the fish!  You may take my word—­ ‘tis first throwin’ away the helve and then the hatchet.  I could never see any sense in War, for my part; an’ I remember bein’ very much impressed, back at the bye-election, by a little man who came down uninvited in a check ulster and a straw hat.  The Liberal Committee disowned him, and he was afterwards taken up an’ give three months at Quarter Sessions for payin’ his board an’ lodgin’ somewhere with a fancy cheque.  But he was most impressive, even convincing while he lasted; and I remember to this day what he told us about the South African War.  ‘That War, my friends,’ he said, ’has cost us, first an’ last, two hundred an’ fifty millions of money—­and ’oo paid for it?  You an’ me.’  Boo-oom! once more!  That’s the way the money goes,—­an’, more by token, here comes Pamphlett to know what the row’s about, an’ with the loose cash, I’se wage, fairly skipping in his trouser-pockets.”

Sure enough, Mr Pamphlett, as the cannonade shook the plate-glass windows of his bank, had started up in some alarm, and was sallying forth to seek reassurance.  For again the inner sheet of the newspaper, with its reports of the mobilisation of armies and of embassies taking flight from various European capitals, had engaged all his attention, and he had missed the advertisement columns.

On his way to ask news of the group of fishermen at the Quay-head he hurried—­and almost without observing him—­past Nicky-Nan; who likewise had hobbled forth to discover the meaning of the uproar, and, having discovered it, had retired to seat himself on the bollard outside the “Three Pilchards” and nurse his leg.  “What’s this firing about?” asked Mr Pamphlett, arriving in a high state of perspiration.  “I—­I gather, from the cool way you men are taking it, that there’s no cause for alarm?”

Now Un’ Benny, who found it hard as a rule to bear ill-will toward any living creature, very cordially disliked Mr Pamphlett—­as indeed did most of the men on the Quay.  But whereas the dislike of nine-tenths of Polpier was helpless as the toad’s resentment of the harrow—­since the banker held the strings of sundry Fishing Companies, and was a hard taskmaster—­Un’ Benny, with a few chosen kinsmen, had preserved his independence.