"What hev ruffled yer spirits, Mother?" asked the farmer, mildly.
"You may talk till yer throat be dry as a kex, Trenchard," cried the angry woman, "but you'll never make me believe as black's white—never!"
"What silly ass has been trying to, Mrs. Trenchard?" said Eves, sitting up. He had passed a dull evening.
"There's my boy Joe," she went on. "What did he do, though only a Territorial and not supposed to move a leg out of his parish? 'Mum,' says he—you heard un wi' yer own ears, Trenchard—''tis said here and there they want men in France. Seems to me I must go.' 'That heathen land!' says I. 'Ay, that's the place,' says he; 'we're all going.' And go he did, and what wi' the rats and the mud——"
"Now, now, don't 'ee carry on, Mother," said the farmer, seeing that his wife's eyes were filling. "Who've been vexing yer soul? And I don't care who the man is——"
"Man! He baint no man. He's a conscientious objection. You'd never believe it, Trenchard. When I traipsed down along to village, there was a crowd of a dozen or more by church gate, and, thinks I, 'They be talking o' young gentleman's invention'; but, coming up to them, no such thing; 'twas that lad of Noakes's holding forth, preaching peace as bold as brass."
"You don't say so, Mrs. Trenchard," cried Eves. "That little chap with the long hair?"
"No, no, Mr. Eves; little Josiah baint so gifted. 'Twas Noakes's elder lad, Nahum by name, as went away to work in Weymouth a year or two back, and now home he comes boasting of how he 'scaped the Army, and telling folks the war is wrong, and we be as much to blame as they Germans, and no one didn't oughter fight for their country, and a pack of rubbish. All fighting be against his conscience, says he—a pretty conscience, indeed, as growed sudden when the Lords and Parlyment said every man was a born soldier. Conscience! Why, Trenchard, you mind how he used to leather his feyther's horse; and many's the time I've seed un cuff and pinch his little brother till the poor soul hollered wi' pain. The likes of him! What them there tribunals be about in letting him off when good boys like my Joe, as wouldn't hurt a fly and haven't got no conscience—there, 'tis a scandal, and makes my blood boil, it do."
"Well, well, Mother," said Mr. Trenchard, "I'll go as fur's to say I agree with 'ee; but I wouldn't say a word against Mr. Noakes. He's a man of renown in the parish."
"The dickens he is!" ejaculated Eves, who had followed Mrs. Trenchard's story with the liveliest interest. Templeton, also, having finished his draft, had listened with his usual air of thoughtfulness.