"Very well; I'm not unreasonable. We'll set to work and make a glider; then you'll see."
"Righto! Feel more easy now? Hope you won't wake in the night."
Templeton was just dozing off when from Eves there came:
"I say, Bob."
"What?"
"You'll have to cut into your tenner at last. Bye-bye!"
During the next week they did very little "work on the land." Farmer Trenchard, impressed as usual by Templeton's earnestness, allowed them as much leave as they wanted, and they devoted themselves during the hours of daylight to the manufacture of a glider. A journey to the nearest town and the cashing of the £10 note furnished them with the wood and the textile fabric they needed, and Templeton had sufficient skill in carpentry to fashion two wings, light enough for his purpose, yet strong enough to sustain him. His funds would not run to an electric motor, but he thought that, for his first experiments, the lengthening rod might be actuated by stout cords running over pulleys.
The contrivance was finished after a week's hard work. Tested in the farmyard, the lengthening apparatus worked smoothly; it only remained to try it in the air. Templeton had already marked a suitable spot for the trial—a sloping field some little distance from the farm, too steep for cultivation, and occupied usually by cattle fattening for Coggins, the butcher. It was enclosed by a thick hedge except at the gate, and that was kept locked, and blocked with brushwood.
"I think perhaps we had better ask Coggins's leave to use his field," suggested Templeton.
"Don't do anything of the sort," replied Eves. "We don't want a crowd of yokels looking on. If the thing goes all right, you can invite the village to an exhibition."