Nicky-Nan, Reservist | Page 3

soon after the dinner-hour the girls
asserted themselves by starting an Ambulance Corps, and with details
so realistic that not a few of the male combatants hauled out of battle

on pretence of wounds and in search of better fun.
Nicholas Nanjivell, "mooning" by the bridge twelve paces from his
door, sharpening his jack-knife upon a soft parapet-stone that was
reported to bring cutlery to an incomparable edge and had paid for its
reputation, being half worn away--Nicholas Nanjivell, leaning his
weight on the parapet, to ease the pain in his leg--Nicholas Nanjivell,
gloomily contemplating his knife and wishing he could plunge it into
the heart of a man who stood behind a counter behind a door which
stood in view beyond the bridge-end--Nicholas Nanjivell, nursing his
own injury to the exclusion of any that might threaten Europe--glanced
up and beheld his neighbour Penhaligon's children, Young 'Bert and
'Beida (Zobeida), approach by the street from the Quay bearing
between them a stretcher, composed of two broken paddles and part of
an old fishing-net, and on the stretcher, covered by a tattered pilot-jack,
a small form--their brother 'Biades (Alcibiades), aged four. It gave him
a scare.
"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.
Polpier lies in a gorge so steep and deep that though it faces but a little
east of south, all its western flank lay already in deep shadow. The
sunlight slanting over the ridge touched the tops of the masts, half a
dozen of which had trucks with a bravery of gilt, while a couple wore
the additional glory of a vane. On these it flashed, and passed on to
bathe the line of cottages along the eastern shore, with the coast-guard
hut that stood separate beyond them on the round of the cliff-track--all
in one quiet golden glow. War?