"The labour we delight in don’t show on our reports, old man. Anyway, you’ve got a tenner. Better an aunt in England than a pater in India. The old boy’s all right, of course; I don’t blame him, but that old mummy of a solicitor who manages things here. He’ll pay Mother Trenchard’s weekly bills on the nail, but he won’t send me another penny till next quarter day; theory is, teach me economy, as if any man could come through the summer term with a pocketful of money! The wonder is I’ve got fivepence halfpenny plus seven bob." "Well, Aunt Caroline’s tenner will go a long——" "Will go along too fast," Eves interrupted. "What will you try first?" "You see, I’ve got such loads of ideas. Better start with something useful and patriotic. The hair-cutter can wait." "That’s rather a pity. Young Noakes’s flaxen locks are as long and twice as oily as Barker’s. Still, his father might cut up rough; he’d certainly charge you for the hair-oil you’d wasted. Noakes gets my bristles up, and Trenchard looks very blue when he calls. Wonder what he comes for; we’ve only been here three days, and he’s called twice at tea-time, and eaten enormously. Any one could see the Trenchards didn’t want him; asked him to stay out of politeness, I suppose." "I say, we’re not getting on. There’s the tar entanglement." "Jolly good idea! Thousands of Huns stuck fast like flies on a fly-paper; you know, one of those you unroll and can’t get off your fingers. But don’t tar come from gasworks?" "Really, I don’t know. Why?" "I believe it does. That idea’s off, then, for the present. Let’s try something with material we can get close at hand." "Well, what about the smoke machine? With the submarines sinking our vessels——" "Jolly good idea! Lick the submarine, and the Hun’s done—_un_done, you might say. I vote for the smoke machine, then. By the way, where will you change your note? A tenner’s a rarity here, I fancy, and Trenchard won’t have any change." "He’ll be going into Wimborne or Weymouth or somewhere to draw his hands’ wages at the week-end. We can jog on till then. That’s him calling us, isn’t it?" A prolonged shout reminded them that it was time to start work. "Another idea, Bob," said Eves as they crossed the bridge and walked up the road. "An automatic turnip-puller. Of all the dreary, deadly, backaching jobs, pulling turnips is the rottenest." "Still, it’s work on the land; got to be done by some one. An automatic puller: I’ll think it over." *II*