“To judge by your appearance,” said the corporal with no sign of umbrage, “that was some time ago, afore they started the Territorial movement. . . .  Ever study what they call Stradegy?  No?—­I thought not.  Stradegy means that down below your patch there’s a cove o’ sorts:  where there’s a cove there’s a landin’-place; where you can get a light gun ashore you can clear the shore till you find a spot to land heavy guns.  Once you’ve landed heavy guns you’ve a-took Plymouth in the rear.  You follow me?” Corporal Sandercock stood up and picked up a crumb or two of tobacco from the creases of his tunic.  “I’ll go fetch a fatigue party to harvest these spuds o’ yours,” said he.  “There’ll be compensation for disturbance.  If you like, you can come along an’ bargain it out wi’ the O.C.”

“No,” said Nicky-Nan, snatching at this happy chance.  “I’m a lame one, as you see.  What must be, must, I suppose:  but while you step along I’ll bide here.”

“So long, then!”

The corporal had no sooner turned his back than Nicky began to unwrap his bundle in a fumbling haste.  He watched the rotund figure as it waddled away over the rise; and so, dropping on his knees, fell to work furiously.  The sun was already making its warmth felt.  In less than five minutes the sweat trickled off his forehead and dropped on his wrists as he dug with his unhandy trowel and grabbed at the soil.

Something more than a quarter of an hour had passed when, looking up for the fiftieth time, he spied the corporal returning down the grassy slope, alone.  By this time his job was nearly done; and after finishing it he had the presence of mind to dig up a quart or so of potatoes and spread them over the gold coins in his sack.

“What in thunder’s your hurry?” demanded the corporal, halting for a moment on the crest of the rise and gazing down.  “I told you as I’d fetch a party to clear the patch for you; an’, what’s more, the spuds shall be delivered to your door sometime this very day.  But the Captain can’t spare a man this side o’ nine o’clock, an’ so I was to tell you.”  He descended the slope, mopping his brow.  “Pretty good tubers?”

Nicky-Nan hypocritically dived a hand into the sack, drew forth a fistful, and held them out in his open palm.

“Ay, and a very tidy lot,” the corporal nodded.  “And what might be the name of ’em?”

“Duchess o’ Cornwall they’re called:  one o’ the new Maincrops, an’ one o’ the best.  East-country grown.  You may pull half a dozen or so for yourself if you’ll do me the favour to accept ’em.”

“Thank ‘ee, friend.  There’s nothin’ I relish more than a white-fleshed ‘taty, well-grown an’ well-boiled.  Not a trace o’ disease anywhere,” observed the corporal, running his eye over the rows and bringing it to rest on the newly-turned soil at his feet.  “Eh?  Hullo!”

He stooped and picked up a sovereign.

“That’s mine!” Nicky-Nan claimed it hastily.  “I must ha’ dropped it—­”