Within twenty-four hours all Nether-Applewhite knew.
Somebody at the telegraph-office must have babbled.
What followed may be imagined. Dick told Tom, and Tom told Harry, till verisimilitude—to quote Gilbert—attached itself to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. Ultimately, the tale reached the ears of Uncle. Alfred Yellam was a deserter—such a deduction from the telegram might be considered crude, but on that very account likely to be gobbled by gaffers—with a price set upon him, alive or dead. King Garge on his throne knew it.
Poor Uncle became distraught. If it were true, he could never carry a high head again. Stoutly he refused to believe it, breathing strange oaths and threatening violence to all and sundry. If such a wicked lie reached Fancy's ears, it would kill her. He strode into the forest to cool himself. Could he face his fellow-men in church? He beheld two empty pews, and gnashed his teeth.
Returning from the forest, somewhat easier in mind, he decided that Susan must be warned. Very wisely he went to Hamlin first, who confirmed the telegram, agreeing with Uncle that Mrs. Yellam should be told the truth and what it had been twisted into by wagging tongues. Sensible of Uncle's excitement and indignation, he said quietly:
"You must rise above this gossip. It is not unnatural and not ill-natured."
"I begs your pardon, sir?"
"Sir Geoffrey says that Alfred must be somewhere. For my part, I prefer to think of him in the care, perhaps, of some friendly French peasant, tending a man who may not remember his own name."
"That be a mort o' comfort. Twice in my long life, I minds forgetting my own name. I took a notion that I were the village idiot. Bad ale's tricksy stuff. But desartion be a tarr'ble word."
Hamlin clapped him hard on the shoulder.