"Well, not exactly gone; but 'e's 'listed in the 'Gloucesters—did it this afternoon over to Cissister. An' it's all you; he says so."
"Me!" cried Robin—by this time they were in the nursery. "I never sent him. I like him. I don't want him to go."
"Well, anyway, he's been and done it this afternoon, and his mother's in the kitchen this minute in a fine takin'. And it's all along of you and your talk, she says."
Robin pondered. "Of course, he's right to go," he said slowly; "but, truly, I never asked him to."
"I don't know who'll do the garden," nurse said, still in the same thrilled, impressive voice, "or what Vicar'll say, or Miss Rivers."
"Will Aunt Monica be angry?" Robin asked, vaguely troubled. It was bad enough to lose Pollard, but if everybody blamed him for it ... and just then who should come into the nursery but grandfather himself.
He came very slowly, for he was an old, old gentleman.
Robin was standing by the fire with nothing on but his vest and his stockings.
When grandfather reached the hearthrug, he held out his hand. "Grandson," he said, solemnly, "I congratulate you. You've managed to do what none of the rest of us could do. You've roused a spark of patriotism in Pollard. Aunt Monica and I are proud of you."
It was very wonderful to shake hands with grandfather like that, and to have him there looking down at one so kindly through his gold-rimmed glasses. Robin was not at all sure what it all meant, except that grandfather and Aunt Monica were not angry, neither with Pollard nor with him. But he did connect Pollard's sudden action with all he had told him about daddy and mummy and the Sikhs.