“Are you hungry, my friends?”

The Germans stopped sifting gravel, looked up at him, and one of them nodded.

“And thirsty?”

This time they all three nodded.

“Come on, then,” said Mr. Lavender.

And he led the way back along the road, followed by Blink and the three Germans.  Arriving at the beech clump whose great trees were already throwing shadows, denoting that it was long past noon, Mr. Lavender saw that Joe had spread food on the smooth ground, and was, indeed, just finishing his own repast.

“What is there to eat?” thought Mr. Lavender, with a soft of horror.  “For I feel as if I were about to devour a meal of human flesh.”  And he looked round at the three Germans slouching up shamefacedly behind him.

“Sit down, please,” he said.  The three men sat down.

“Joe,” said Mr. Lavender to his surprised chauffeur, “serve my lunch.  Give me a large helping, and a glass of ale.”  And, paler than his holland dust-coat, he sat resolutely down on the bole of a beech, with Blink on her haunches beside him.  While Joe was filling a plate with pigeon-pie and pouring out a glass of foaming Bass, Mr. Lavender stared at the three Germans and suffered the tortures of the damned.  “I will not flinch,” he thought; “God helping me, I certainly will not flinch.  Nothing shall prevent my going through with it.”  And his eyes, more prominent than a hunted rabbit’s, watched the approach of Joe with the plate and glass.  The three men also followed the movements of the chauffeur, and it seemed to Mr. Lavender that their eyes were watering.  “Courage!” he murmured to himself, transfixing a succulent morsel with his fork and conveying it to his lips.  For fully a minute he revolved the tasty mouthful, which he could not swallow, while the three men’s eyes watched him with a sort of lugubrious surprise.  “If,” he thought with anguish, “if I were a prisoner in Germany!  Come, come!  One effort, it’s only the first mouthful!” and with a superhuman effort, he swallowed.  “Look at me!” he cried to the three Germans, “look at me!  I—­I—­I’m going to be sick!” and putting down his plate, he rose and staggered forward.  “Joe,” he said in a dying voice, “feed these poor men, feed them; make them drink; feed them!” And rushing headlong to the edge of the grove, he returned what he had swallowed—­to the great interest of Brink.  Then, waving away the approach of Joe, and consumed with shame and remorse at his lack of heroism, he ran and hid himself in a clump of hazel bushes, trying to slink into the earth.  “No,” he thought; “no; I am not for public life.  I have failed at the first test.  Was ever so squeamish an exhibition?  I have betrayed my country and the honour of public life.  These Germans are now full of beer and pigeon-pie.  What am I but a poltroon, unworthy to lace the shoes of the great leaders of my land?  The sun has witnessed my disgrace.”

How long he stayed there lying on his face he did not know before he heard the voice of Joe saying, “Wot oh, sir!”