Hardly had I put Philip in the trap when James emerged.
"Good Lord!" he shouted, "it's done it! He's in!"
He dashed on to the lawn, wild with joy. Probably it was the first time any of his devices had succeeded.
"Aha, my beauty," he cried, slipping his hand under the calico. "We've got you safe, have we?"
We had not. There was a flash of red and grey, and the outraged Philip, minus a tail feather, sought the sanctuary of the woods.
He is still absent without leave at the time of writing.
Manager of Labour Exchange (to man whom he has sent to a job for "an intelligent labourer to assist the demonstrator of tanks; one who can hold his tongue about the work"). "WELL, MIKE, HOW'S EVERYTHING GOING?"
Mike (confidentially). "FAITH, BUT THEY'RE A DEAD FAILURE, SORR. WHY, THREE WEEKS I'VE BEEN ON THIM TANKS AND NIVER WAN HAS RIZ OFF THE GROUND YET."