Not a single member of that family was practising with the rifle, or drilling, or learning to make bandages.
Clarence groaned.
“If you can’t play without snorting like that, my boy,” said Mr. Chugwater, a little irritably, “you must find some other game. You made me jump just as I was going to beat my record.”
“Talking of records,” said Reggie, “Fry’s on his way to his eighth successive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win the championship.”
“I thought he was playing for Somerset,” said Horace.
“That was a fortnight ago. You ought to keep up to date in an important subject like cricket.”
Once more Clarence snorted bitterly.
“I’m sure you ought not to be down on the floor, Clarence,” said Mr. Chugwater anxiously. “It is so draughty, and you have evidently got a nasty cold.
“I am spooring,” said Clarence with simple dignity.
“But I’m sure you can spoor better sitting on a chair with a nice book.”
“
“I was thinking,” said Clarence, “of my country—of England.”
“What’s the matter with England?”
“
“My fallen country!” sighed Clarence, a not unmanly tear bedewing the glasses of his spectacles. “My fallen, stricken country!”
“That kid,” said Reggie, laying down his paper, “is talking right through his hat. My dear old son, are you aware that England has never been so strong all round as she is now? Do you
Clarence’s heart was too full for words. He rose in silence, and quitted the room.
“Got the pip or something!” said Reggie. “Rum kid! I say, Hirst’s bowling well! Five for twenty-three so far!”
Clarence wandered moodily out of the house. The Chugwaters lived in a desirable villa residence, which Mr. Chugwater had built in Essex. It was a typical Englishman’s Home. Its name was Nasturtium Villa.
As Clarence walked down the road, the excited voice of a newspaper-boy came to him. Presently the boy turned the corner, shouting, “Ker-lapse of Surrey! Sensational bowling at the Oval!”
He stopped on seeing Clarence.
“Paper, General?”
Clarence shook his head. Then he uttered a startled exclamation, for his eye had fallen on the poster.
It ran as follows:—
SURREY DOING BADLY GERMAN ARMY LANDS IN ENGLAND
Chapter 2
THE INVADERS
Clarence flung the boy a halfpenny, tore a paper from his grasp, and scanned it eagerly. There was nothing to interest him in the body of the journal, but he found what he was looking for in the stop-press space. “Stop press news,” said the paper. “Fry not out, 104. Surrey 147 for 8. A German army landed in Essex this afternoon. Loamshire Handicap: Spring Chicken, 1; Salome, 2; Yip-i-addy, 3. Seven ran.”
Essex! Then at any moment the foe might be at their doors; more, inside their doors. With a passionate cry, Clarence tore back to the house.
He entered the dining-room with the speed of a highly-trained Marathon winner, just in time once more to prevent Mr. Chugwater lowering his record.
“The Germans!” shouted Clarence. “We are invaded!”
This time Mr. Chugwater was really annoyed.
“If I have told you once about your detestable habit of shouting in the house, Clarence, I have told you a hundred times. If you cannot be a Boy Scout quietly, you must stop being one altogether. I had got up to six that time.”
“But, father–-“
“Silence! You will go to bed this minute; and I shall consider the question whether you are to have any supper. It will depend largely on your behaviour between now and then. Go!”
“But, father–-“
Clarence dropped the paper, shaken with emotion. Mr. Chugwater’s sternness deepened visibly.
“Clarence! Must I speak again?”
He stooped and removed his right slipper.
