Roy replied—somewhat unexpectedly—right in my left ear, at the top of his voice:
"Uncle Alan, I want to tell you that I am married!"
"So I have been given to understand!" I bellowed. The din was growing louder.
"Who told you? Old Eskerley?"
I nodded; halted; and sniffed the air,
"I thought so," I said. "Gas-masks, Roy—quick!"
Roy turned and waved an order to his company. In a few seconds we were advancing again: each man had transformed God's image into a goggled deformity, and was breathing God's air from a box of chemicals through a jointed tube.
Roy and I adjusted our masks last.
"Come along," I said, with a glance ahead of us: "the longer we look at it the less we shall like it!" I tried to fit my mask to my face, but found that Roy was shouting into my ear again.
"Uncle Alan—"