"London was much the same when I was there last," he observed. "What say you, Farrar? In one or two places it looks as if the L.C.C. workmen have started to pull down some buildings instead of pulling up the roadway. I went on a 'bus from Fulham to the Bank, and never saw a sign of damage. As for the population having cold feet—here, read this, it's a letter from a girl friend of my wife's; sixteen I think's her age."
The flight-lieutenant drew a crumpled envelope from his pocket and handed it to the Moke.
The letter was written in pencil as follows:
| "DRAMATIS PERSONAE | |
| GERMAN 'PLANES | LONDON AIR DEFENCE |
| BOMBS—A BEASTLY ROW | SHRAPNEL |
| AND THE FAMILY OF RAMSHAW | |
Time—9.15 p.m. Place—The wine cellar of No. 445, Russeldish Square. Play—"The Tin Kettles of London."
"Act I, Scene I.—Peggy is asleep on the mattress that is kept down here." ("Peggy is her sister, aged nine," explained Barcroft.) "I have a few dozen bottles of champagne in front of me, so if my writing gets a bit wobbly you will know the cause. Golly! They are making a beastly row; I shall go deaf in a minute. A policeman tore along the road just now, ringing his bicycle bell and shouting, 'Take cover,' so we adjourned to our dugout as usual. The housemaid is shaking like a jelly. I hope she won't collapse on top of poor me.
"Act I, Scene II.—Crash.... That's some of our glass gone—that means another piece of shrapnel, hip, pip. In the last raid we had some glass broken in the kitchen skylight, and afterwards I had a gorgeous find—a piece of shell weighing three-quarters of a pound.
"Act II, Scene I.—There's an aeroplane going overhead—a moment of suspense. Bang!... A bomb next door by the sound of it, but I expect it's really a good way away. It's ten o'clock now, so they've been at it for three-quarters of an hour—what an age I'm taking to write this letter, but I stop every minute to listen to the orchestra playing a selection which varies between the big drum (bombs) and the kettle-drums (guns). Please excuse the writing and the pencil, but there are nine of us squashed into about eight square feet, with hardly any ventilation. Do you think that the motor of your laid-up car would drive an air-fan? Because, if so, you might send it to us and I could rig it up before to-morrow night, as we have been down here at least once every night this week, and I expect we shall continue to do so until the end of this moon.
"Act II, Scene II.—There's another aeroplane. They always seem to spend ages going over this house.
"10.15.—We're been down here an hour and Fritz's still going strong, like Johnny Walker. There's a motor-ambulance going past.