"Back to your work for the present."
William Busketts retreated, slightly moithered, but more at ease. He had expected an explosion, followed by the "sack."
Sir Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, sorely discomfited. It would be pleasant to record that happier fortune awaited him in his stables, in his gardens, and at the Home Farm; but truth will leap from her well on rare occasions. Out of all the young men interviewed upon this memorable morning, young men more or less dependent upon the will and whim of their interlocutor, only one promised to enlist forthwith. The others touched their caps, bobbed their heads, and professed themselves willing to do anything except bear arms for their country.
Luncheon at Pomfret Court, accordingly, was not a very cheery meal. The Squire sat silent and abstracted; the troubles in his brain upset his appetite.
In the afternoon, he called upon Captain Davenant, whom he found apoplectic with indignation. The Captain had a modest establishment, but he had discharged two men who—so the Captain affirmed—preferred to guzzle ale when a unique opportunity for sticking pig was held out to them.
"Country's rotten," concluded the Captain. "It may be saved by the gentlemen, by God! sir, but not by our yokels."
The Squire protested against this, saying, mildly for him:
"Perhaps, Davenant, our methods are at fault."
"That be damned!" roared the Captain.
"Well, well, it's fairly obvious that so far our recruiting campaign has not been an overwhelming success. Hamlin means to have a go at 'em on Sunday. I haven't a notion how he'll tackle the job, but there it is. What is your opinion of William Saint?"