was young, slight, with a quizzical look in his eye. One had usually to strain one's ears to hear what he was saying, but now he was shouting at the top of his voice. "I shall bloody well leave the bloody village," he was saying. "Work for a lot of soldiers! Not me!" "That's right, that's quite right!" said the others, and most of them looked at Fred with admiration, though mingled with it was some regret, for those who had wives and children knew that it would be impossible for them to leave their houses, and the older men knew that the habits of their lifetimes could not be transplanted. A general conversation, eager and bitter, took place, and the hard words used of the aerodrome seemed gradually to relieve the men's pent-up feelings. More and more beer was drunk, and soon some of those who had been standing close to each other in eager talk sat down separately and lit their pipes. First one group and then another would begin to talk of subjects other than the aerodrome, and from time to time short bursts of laughter would arise to mark the conclusion of some story. Mac strolled slowly towards the dartboard and Fred followed him. They tossed up and Mac, having won, took his stand on the rubber mat that marked the throw. Several others turned their heads to watch the players. "Cross-bred puppy!" Mac said, as his first dart missed the double. He took the second dart between his fingers, kissed it, and murmured, "Come now, my little sucking-pig", but it too missed the mark. Then he shook his head and shouted out what we had come to regard as his especial battle cry, "Come, fever, from the South!" His third dart fixed in the double twenty. There was general laughter and Fred, taking his place on the mat, swore as he spilt some beer over his trousers. Jollity was, for the moment, restored. The landlord came into the bar from an inner room. He nodded towards me gravely and leant over the bar, puffing at his pipe, surveying the dart-players with satisfaction. He was a large man, kindly in his way, and with determined views on politics. He had nothing in him of his daughter's grace of manner. I inquired after his wife, and learnt that she had been ill and was away, staying with a friend. That morning I could not join in the general merriment. I ordered some bread and cheese and sat down in a corner away from the dartboard, watching Bess as she went to and fro filling and washing out the glass tankards. From time to time she would look at me and smile with her head twisted round, perhaps, while she measured out whisky with her back to the room, or staring up at me from beneath her eyebrows as she bent down to replace glasses on the shelf below the bar. But I felt insecure and her beauty only left me weak. Though I knew the people here well, and loved them, I was disgusted and frightened by the contrast between their quick anger, their sudden levity, and the undeviating precision and resolution of the Air Vice-Marshal. I longed for the time when the bar would close and I could put my arms round Bess, for I fancied that in her love there was some security, and I wished to tell her of my feelings at the funeral and to discuss with her plans for the future which I now began to hope that we would share together. It seemed long to wait before the landlord removed the pipe from his lips, stared solemnly at the clock, and in his ringing voice cried out: "Time now, all you gentlemen, please." There was a decent pause, and then the men, now mostly drunk, began to walk or stumble out into the road. Some shook my hand on their way out, and I could see that now, in their drunkenness, their original impressions of the dead Rector and of the funeral were returning to them. I followed them out of the pub and walked up the hill to the stile leading into one of the fields below the aerodrome. The air was warm in spite of a light breeze that chased a few high clouds over the spring-clear sky. From the stile I could see a portion of one of the large
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