The seven or eight villages that had not abandoned their orchards watched the spectacle with curious amusement. Old John's village was among them.
Old John was now the village chief, and his son was a member of the village militia. That was right-the militia. After the riot had been quelled, all the officials in charge had agreed to establish a ten-man militia squad in each village, managed by its village chief. The chief could receive the same monthly grain allowance as a regular soldier, while militiamen received only half that amount.
Even though militiamen received only half the allowance, plenty of people fought tooth and nail to join. After all, their lives were practically the same as those of ordinary villagers. They only had to step in when disputes arose in the village. There was little work, and they received grain every month. If they were called up to accompany regular soldiers out to sea, they also received a travel allowance.
"Father, I saw Third Uncle when I went to Southshore aboard the ship the day before yesterday," Old John's militiaman son said as he planted sweet potatoes.
"How was he doing?" Old John asked, also busy planting.
"He was begging on the street," his son said.
"Oh." Old John said nothing more.
"I was shopping with the sailors when he rushed over from the roadside and grabbed my legs. He gave me quite a fright. I thought he was just another refugee," his son said. "I wasn't going to bother with him, but he kept calling my name and wouldn't let go. It wasn't until I took a closer look that I recognized him."
"How could you not recognize your own Third Uncle?" Old John asked.
"Oh, come on! Looking the way he did, who would recognize him without