"You're not agoin' to do that with the men left in Amberry," said Aaron. He was a market-gardener by trade. "'Twould be like a dozen sparrers tryin' to outflank a steam-roller. Trenchin's the thing. Dig deep, an' lay the soil loose 'long the far edge. There's a decent bit o' shelter by Whemmick's Cottages."
"The best bein' opposite Number Five," added Fallow, whereat there was a bellow of laughter, and Aaron flushed magnificently, for at Number Five lives Molly Garner, wooed by Aaron, but as yet hesitating between him and the Wream plumber.
George Hangar, who up to the present had scarcely spoken, intervened. He has a bass voice, which on Sundays makes the little roof of the United Bunyans quiver; for the other six days of the week he works at a carpenter's bench in an open-fronted shed. He has a sound knowledge of timber, and is no ignoramus concerning the values of Hepplewhite and Sheraton.
"You're wrong," he roared. "Silly-minded an' wrong! This ain't the Aisne. What do a village do when it's attacked? Answer me that."
No one answered; to say the wrong thing would exasperate him, to say the right would exasperate him still more.
"They puts up barrycades," continued Hangar. "An' for why? 'Cause it's only them that can hold off horse, foot an' 'tillery. Barrycades made o' seasoned oak, same as I got stored at the back o' my shed, sunk a good two feet, with bolted cross-pieces an' spurs, an' maybe a trifle o' barbed wire in front."
"An' where's this contraption to be set up?" demanded Mr. Chittenden with sudden suspicion.
"End o' village."
"Meanin' that the enemy may march through Wream, with nothin' to stop 'em wreckin' the Fountain? An' this was to be a meetin' for the consideration o' mutual defence!"
"The question afore the members," said Aaron hastily, "is, which place 'as most strategetical value? Thing is to stop 'em quick an' for good."