The place rang and echoed, long after the hours of the ordinary working man's working day, with the clinking and whirring and hammering of those labours that went to bring forth these great wings of War.
Some of the French mechanics whom Gwenna had known well by sight had disappeared. They had been served with their mobilisation papers and were now off to serve under the Tricolour.
One or two of the English fitters, who were Reservists, had rejoined. One had enlisted.
But now, the Aeroplane Lady explained, the enlisting of any more of her men had been discouraged. They were too useful where they were. They, with many other sturdy Britons who fretted because they were not to take up other, riskier work on the other side of the Channel, were kept busy enough preparing the arms which those other, envied men were to use.
It was for the encouragement of them and their fellow-workers in Armament and Ammunition factories that a bundle of blue-lettered posters came down presently to the Works.
Gwenna, once more arrayed in the grey-blue, dope-stiffened pinafore, had the job of pinning up here and there, in the shops and sheds, these notices. They announced to the Man at the Bench that he was as needful to his country as the Man in the Trench. They gave out:
"YOU CAN HIT THE ENEMY AS HARD WITH
HAMMER AND RIVET AS YOU CAN WITH
RIFLE AND BULLET.
HIT HIM!
HURRY UP WITH THE SHIPS AND GUNS!"
And she, too, little Gwenna Dampier, clerk and odd-job-girl, felt herself respond to the appeal. As she typed letters and orders, as she heated dope, as she varnished for the men's handling those huge blue prints with the white, spider's-web-like "working drawings," or as she tested square inches of the fine wing-linen, she felt that she, too, was helping in her way to hurry up with those needed ships and guns.
Was she not lucky in her job?