“An honest girl as walks out wud a married man fur all the Street to see, and then goes and gits half murdered by a gipsy!”
“A clergyman’s son,” corrected Mrs. Beatup. “And it wurn’t her fault, nuther. Our Ivy may be a bit flighty, but she’s pure as the morning’s milk.”
“Whur’s she gone, then? She’d nowheres to go. You doan’t know the warld as I do, and I tell you she’s gone wud un, and be hemmed to her. We’re all disgraced and ull never hoald up our heads agaun.”
“I woan’t believe it.”
“You’re an obstinate oald wife—I tell you it’ll be proved to-morrer.”
“How?”
“I’ll go to the camp myself and find out. If Seagrim’s gone too, then it’s proved.”
The family went to bed convinced, except for Mrs. Beatup—who kept up a mulish belief in her daughter’s honesty—that Ivy had run away with Seagrim.
The next morning Mus’ Beatup set out for Hailsham to make enquiries. But he had not been fitted by nature for a diplomatic visit to a military camp—all he did was to fall foul of various sentries and nearly get arrested. In the end he found himself back in the road, with nothing gained except perhaps the fact that he was not in the guard-room. He felt as if the whole British Army were in league against him, the accomplice of one Corporal in his crimes, and was scanning the scenery for a public-house when he heard the sound of marching feet, and a file came tramping up the road, commanded by Seagrim himself.
Mus’ Beatup straddled across his way.