Tom kissed them sheepishly all round, then walked out of the door without a word.
He was in the yard, when he heard footsteps creaking after him, and turned round to see his mother.
“Wait a bit, Tom,” she panted; “I’ll go wud you to the geate.”
He was surprised, but it did not strike him to say so. They walked down the drive together almost in silence, the boy hanging his head. Mrs. Beatup sniffed and choked repeatedly.
“Doan’t go near those Germans, Tom,” she said, when they came to a standstill. “If you do, you’ll be killed for certain sure.”
“I’ll go where I’m put, surelye,” said Tom gloomily.
“Well, be careful, that’s all. Kip well behind the other lads, and doan’t go popping your head over walls or meddling wud cannons. And kip your feet dry, Tom, and doan’t git into temptation.”
“I promise, mother,” he mumbled against her neck, and they kissed each other many times before she let him go.
The Rifle Volunteer looked down from his sign, where he stood in the grey uniform and mutton-chop whiskers of an earlier dispensation, and stared at the stocky, shambling little figure that trudged its unwilling way to sacrifice—past Worge Cottages, stewing in the sunshine like pippins, past Egypt Farm (which Bill Putland would leave later and more conveniently in his father’s dog-cart), past the shop, with a glance half shy, half beseeching, at the drawn blinds, past the willow pond, out of Sunday Street, into the long yellow road that led to the unsought, undesired adventure.