ay to make this improvement, and was quite
resolute about it; and Nicky-Nan, by his earlier reception of notices
to quit, had not bettered any chance of resisting. Still--had
Nicky-Nan known it--Mr Pamphlett, like many another bank manager, had
been caught and thrown in a heap by the sudden swoop of War.
Over the telephone wires he had been in agitated converse all day
with his superiors, who had at length managed to explain to him the
working of the financial Moratorium.

So Mr Pamphlett, knowing there must be War, had clean forgotten the
Ejectment Order, until Nicky-Nan inopportunely reminded him of it;
and in his forgetfulness, being testy with overwork, had threatened
execution on Monday--which would be the 3rd: August Bank Holiday, and
a _dies non_.

Somehow Nicky-Nan had forgotten this too. It did not occur to him
until after he had supped on boiled potatoes with a touch of butter,
pepper and salt, washed down with water, a drink he abhorred. When
it occurred to him, he smote his thigh and was rewarded with a twinge
of pain.

He had all Sunday and all Monday in which to lay his plans before the
final evacuation, if evacuation there must be. The enemy had
miscalculated. He figured it out two or three times over, made sure
he was right, and went to bed in his large gaunt bedroom with a sense
of triumph.

Between now and Tuesday a great many things might happen.

A great many things were, in fact, happening. Among them, Europe--
wire answering wire--was engaged in declaring general War.

Nicky-Nan, stretched in the four-post bed which had been the Old
Doctor's, recked nothing of this. But his leg gave him considerable
pain that night, He slept soon, but ill, and awoke before midnight to
the sound--as it seemed--of sobbing. Something was wrong with the
Penhaligon's children? Yet no . . . the sound seemed to come rather
from the chamber where Mr and Mrs Penhaligon slept. . . . It ceased,
and he dropped off to sleep again.

Oddly enough he awoke--not having given it a thought before--with a
scare of War upon him.

In his dream he had been retracing accurately and in detail a small
scene of the previous morning, at the moment quite without
significance for him. Limping back from his cliff-patch with a
basket of potatoes in one hand and with the other using the shaft of
his mattock (or "visgy" in Polpier language) for a walking-staff, as
he passed the watch-house he had been vaguely surprised to find