“You woan’t,” said Mus’ Beatup solemnly, “it’s more likely as the Germans ull be crossing the River Cuckmere than as you’ll ever be crossing the River Rhine. Now, be quiet, Nell, and a-done do, fur I tell you it’s bin proved as we’ll never git to the River Rhine, so where’s the sense of going on wud the war, I’d like to know?”
“To prevent the Germans crossing the River Cuckmere,” snapped Nell.
“Oh, doan’t go talking such tar’ble stuff,” moaned Mrs. Beatup. “If the Germans caum here I’d die of fits.”
“They woan’t come here,” said her husband, “and we’ll never git there, so wot’s the sense of all this vrother, and giving up our lads and ploughing up our grass and going short of beer, all to end where we started? If this war had bin a-going to do us any good, it ud a-done it before now, surelye; but it’s a lousy, tedious, lamentaable war, and the sooner we git shut of it the better.”
“Well, I must be going,” said Tom, standing up. He felt rather angry with his father, who, he thought, talked like a “conscientious objector,” and was prostrating his mighty intellect to base uses. “But maybe the beer has addled him—he’s had a regular souse this winter, by his looks.”
He said good-bye to the family, refusing his mother’s invitation to stay to supper, as he had promised to take Thyrza for a walk that evening. However, he asked her to come with him to the door, as there was something he wanted to say to her alone.
Mrs. Beatup felt pleased at this mark of confidence, but all Tom had to say as he kissed her on the threshold was—
“Mother, if anything wur to happen to me ... out there, you know ... you’d be good to Thyrza?”
“Oh, Tom—you aun’t expecting aught?”
“I hope not, surelye—but how am I to know?”