A number of workmen, under the superintendence of a master carpenter, had been engaged at the quiet retreat selected, which, by the way, was not far from the lunatic asylum in the neighbourhood of Haywards Heath, when Croft, in a semi-clerical attire, assisted his master to make the preliminary arrangements;—then Eben said,—
“Where shall I find the tackle, sir?”
“At the Haywards Heath Goods Station, Eben.”
“Is it to be a public or private affair?”
“As secret and secluded as possible. Not a soul must know who or what I am aiming at, Croft, for this flying machine is to go into Wedwell Park if you can so manage it, and if I were certain about its doing so I might occupy the seat of honour myself.”
“Where is Wedwell, sir, from our present standpoint?”
“Yonder; but keep everything dark, Eben. We must say as little as we can, and that in broken English, with a strong Dutch accent. Do you understand?”
“Yah, yah, mynheer; but some of your helps are coming. I had better get to work directly the boss gets here with the traps.”
“You have seen, Eben, all Scudder’s sketches and know the plan of the invention. Say as little as need be, and make the most of the time present.”
“Yes, for it would never do, sir, for Jack Hawksworth or Simon Warner to catch us at this job.”