Lionel laughed, not wholeheartedly. He was a six months' bridegroom.
"I think, Uncle, that inside of a fortnight I shall be at my depot in Winchester, drilling recruits."
"Lard save us! And you wi' so young and be-utiful a wife!"
"Sir Geoffrey thinks as I do. There is going to be a terrific strain on the manhood of this country. Will it stand that strain?"
"I thinks it will, Master Lionel, so be as they chin-wobblin' politicians keeps their dirty fingers out o' pie. I'd like to march wi' 'ee to Winchester, and overseas, too, by Jo'!"
Lionel nodded. A minute later Uncle strode on his way with the expected half-crown snug in his breeches' pocket. He told himself that he had earned it.
When he reached his cottage, he found George, the youngest of his three sons, just back from the woods, where he worked as a hurdler at this time of year. The other sons were married and established in cottages of their own. Jane Mucklow was busy preparing the eight o'clock hot supper. An agreeable odour filled the kitchen. Uncle kicked the dust off his boots and entered the house, with George at his heels. The good smell of baked pork provoked, as usual, a pleasant word. Indeed, Habakkuk Mucklow had discovered very early in life that soft words do butter parsnips.
"Well, Mother, you looks very sanitary, and what a colour!"
"Got, as you well knows, from stewin' over a fire. Been painting your nose wi' ale, or worse, I reckons."
Uncle stroked his nose.