Cliffe kept me in bed all that day, to my great irritation.  I had no converse with the outside world, save vicariously with Betty, who rang up to enquire after my health.  On the following morning, when I drove abroad with Hosea, I found the whole town ringing with Boyce.  It was a Friday, the day of publication of the local newspaper.  It had run to extravagant bills all over the place: 

“Wellingsford Hero honoured by the King.  Tragic End to Glorious Deeds.”

The word—­Marigold’s, I suppose—­had gone round that I had visited the hero in London.  I was stopped half a dozen times on my way up the High Street by folks eager for personal details.  Outside Prettilove the hairdresser’s I held quite a little reception, and instead of moving me on for blocking the traffic, as any of his London colleagues would have done, the local police sergeant sank his authority and by the side of a butcher’s boy formed part of the assembly.

When I got to the Market Square, I saw Sir Anthony Fenimore’s car standing outside the Town Hall.  The chauffeur stopped me.

“Sir Anthony was going to call on you, sir, as soon as he had finished his business inside.”

“I’ll wait for him,” said I. It was one of the few mild days of a wretched month and I enjoyed the air.  Springfield, the house agent, passed and engaged me in conversation on the absorbing topic, and then the manager of the gasworks joined us.  Everyone listened so reverently to my utterances that I began to feel as if I had won the Victoria Cross myself.

Presently Sir Anthony bustled out of the Town Hall, pink, brisk, full of business.  At the august appearance of the Mayor my less civically distinguished friends departed.  His eyes brightened as they fell on me and he shook hands vigorously.

“My dear Duncan, I was just on my way to you.  Only heard this morning that you’ve been seedy.  Knocked up, I suppose, by your journey to town.  Just heard of that, too.  Must have thought me a brute not to enquire.  But Edith and I didn’t know.  I was away all yesterday.  These infernal tribunals.  With the example of men like Leonard Boyce before their eyes, it makes one sick to look at able-bodied young Englishmen trying to wriggle out of their duty to the country.  Well, dear old chap, how are you?”

I assured him that I had recovered from Cliffe and was in my usual state of health.  He rubbed his hands.

“That’s good.  Now give me all the news.  What is Boyce’s condition?  When will he be able to be moved?  When do you think he’ll come back to Wellingsford?”

At this series of questions I pricked a curious ear.

“Am I speaking to the man or the Mayor?”

“The Mayor,” said he.  “I wish to goodness I could get you inside, so that you and I and Winterbotham could talk things over.”

Winterbotham was the Town Clerk.  Sir Anthony cast an instinctive glance at his chauffeur, a little withered elderly man.  I laughed and made a sign of dissent.  When you have to be carried about, you shy at the prospect of little withered, elderly men as carriers.  Besides—­