"I say, we're not getting on. There's the tar entanglement."
"Jolly good idea! Thousands of Huns stuck fast like flies on a fly-paper; you know, one of those you unroll and can't get off your fingers. But don't tar come from gasworks?"
"Really, I don't know. Why?"
"I believe it does. That idea's off, then, for the present. Let's try something with material we can get close at hand."
"Well, what about the smoke machine? With the submarines sinking our vessels——"
"Jolly good idea! Lick the submarine, and the Hun's done—undone, you might say. I vote for the smoke machine, then. By the way, where will you change your note? A tenner's a rarity here, I fancy, and Trenchard won't have any change."
"He'll be going into Wimborne or Weymouth or somewhere to draw his hands' wages at the week-end. We can jog on till then. That's him calling us, isn't it?"
A prolonged shout reminded them that it was time to start work.
"Another idea, Bob," said Eves as they crossed the bridge and walked up the road. "An automatic turnip-puller. Of all the dreary, deadly, backaching jobs, pulling turnips is the rottenest."
"Still, it's work on the land; got to be done by some one. An automatic puller: I'll think it over."