“I’d say,” answered Nicky-Nan slowly, contemplating the boy—­who wore a slouch hat, a brown shirt with a loosely tied neckerchief, dark-blue cut-shorts and stockings that exhibited some three inches of bare knee—­“I’d say, if he came on me sudden, that he was Buffalo Bill or else Baden Powell, or else the pair rolled into one.”

“You wouldn’t be far wrong either.  He’s a Boy Scout, that’s what he is.  Walked over to St Martin’s this mornin’ an’ joined up.  A kind lady over there was so took with his appearance that she had to improve it or die on the spot, out of her own pocket.  He’s walked back with his own trousers in a parcel, lookin’—­well, like what you see. I think it becomin’, on the whole.  He tells me his motto is ‘Be British,’ an’ he has to do a kind action every day of his life:  which he won’t find easy, in a little place like Polpier.”

As ’Beida drew breath, the boy faced Nicky-Nan half sulkily.

“They put me into this outfit.  I didn’t ask for it.”

“If you want my opinion, ’Bert,” said Nicky-Nan, “it suits ’ee very well; an’ you look two inches taller in it already.”

He hurried on in the direction of Boatbuilder Jago’s yard, which stands close above the foreshore, on the eastern side of the little haven.  When he returned, with the boards under his arm, it was to find ’Bert the centre of a knot of boys, all envious—­though two or three were making brave attempts to hide it under a fire of jocose criticism.  It was plain, however, that morally ’Bert held the upper hand.  Whilst they had been playing silly games around the Quay, he had walked to St Martin’s and done the real thing.  No amount of chaff could hide that his had been the glory of the initiative.  Indeed, he showed less of annoyance with his critics than of boredom with ’Biades, who, whichever way his big brother turned, revolved punctually as a satellite, never relaxing his rapt, upward gaze of idolatry.

“You can shut your heads, the whole lot,” said ’Bert airily.  “First thing to-morrow mornin’ the half of ‘ee’ll be startin’ over for St Martin’s to enlist; an’ you know it.  Better fit you went off home and asked your dear mammies to put ’ee to bed early.  Because there’s not only the walk to St Martin’s an’ back—­which is six mile—­but when you’ve passed the doctor for bandy legs or weak eyesight, you may be started on duty that very night.  I ben’t allowed to say more just now,” he added with a fine air of official reticence.  “And as for you”—­he turned impatiently on ’Biades—­“I wish you’d find your sister, to fetch an’ shut ’ee away somewhere.  Where’s ’Beida to?”

“She’s breakin’ the news to mother,” answered ’Biades.

By seven o’clock Nicky-Nan had measured and cut his boards to size.  He fitted them loosely to floor the bedroom cupboard.  Later on he would fix them securely in place with screws.  But by this time daylight was dusking in, and more urgent business called him.