Eves bent his knees and pulled his pyjamas down over his ankles.
"I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't care. Mrs. Pouncey"—he raised his voice—"come and drag this murdering ruffian away. He's giving me pneumonia."
"Don't be an ass, Tom. Breakfast is nearly ready, and as the nozzle has just come by parcel post, I want to fix it and see how it works before I go off to the shop."
"You and your inventions will be the death of me," grumbled Eves, hugging himself. Then with a sudden movement he caught up his pillow, slammed it at Templeton's head, followed it up with a rush, and began to throw off his pyjamas. "Get out!" he cried. "I'll tub and dress in five minutes—not for you, old greaser, but for the bacon I smell frying."
"Well, I'll have time to fit on the nozzle before you're down."
He dashed out of the room, took the staircase in three resounding leaps, and ran bare-headed through the rain to the shed.
Eves smiled as he watched him through the window.
"Old Bob's excited this morning," he thought. "Another rag, I wonder?"
Templeton's usual stolidity was in fact quite broken down by the arrival of the nozzle made to his own design, for which he had been waiting in order to complete his reconstruction of the ancient road-sweeper. At breakfast he was too much excited to do full justice to the dish of bacon and eggs which the excellent Mrs. Pouncey had provided.
"It's just the thing, Tom," he cried. "It fits perfectly, and I believe the old 'bus will go like one o'clock. The only thing left, if it does work, is to complete my specification and fire it in at the Patent Office."