I played nervously in my pocket with the pin of a live Mills grenade (overlooked by the A.M.L.O.).
"A simple, straightforward trench-coat," I repeated.
"This," said the shopman, handing me something very like a slice of plum-pudding—"this is the cross-section of a piece of the cloth out of which our 'Stopablitey' trench-coat is manufactured. It shows the strata of the material, consisting of alternate layers of old motor tyres and reinforced concrete—the whole covered with alligator skin and proofed with our patent indispensable—"
It was then that I killed him and buried him under a pyramid of indispensable gadgets. It will be years before they find him.
Wife (Time 3.45 A.M.). "WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"
Special Constable. "AIR-RAID DUTY, DEAR."
Wife. "WELL, DON'T LET THE CAT OUT."