"Yes: I’ve great hopes of it. I’ve partly drawn up the specification—I’m going to take out a patent—but I can’t finish it until I get a nozzle that’s being specially manufactured to my order." "Rum thing, Bob, that most of your thingummy-bobs seldom do get finished: what? But we’ve had some splendid rags out of them all the same." "Now that’s not fair," cried Templeton, swinging round, and speaking with a heat pardonable in an earnest inventor. "My road yacht is complete; it’s out there in the yard at this very moment." "That thing old Rabbit-skin was poking his nose into! What’s the idea?" "Well, it’s not exactly new; it’s an adaptation of the sand yacht. With petrol scarce, I asked myself, why waste petrol when the wind can be harnessed for nothing an hour?" "Jolly patriotic, and sporting too, old son. How’s it work?" "Well, you see, it’s a light chassis and a skeleton body with a mainsail, rigged sloop fashion, which gives me several miles an hour in a light wind; it’s good for twelve or fourteen in a fair breeze on a good road on the flat. What it can do in the kind of wind we have to-day I don’t know." "But hang it all, what if you’re becalmed? And what about hills, and bridges, and all that?" "You’ve spotted my main difficulty—to obtain the maximum sail area consistent with the stability of the craft and the limitations of road navigation. Of course I’ve got an auxiliary motor for use in calms and uphill; but bridges aren’t such a nuisance as the hedges; they constrict the roads confoundedly. I have to stick to the highway ... I say, old chap, just answer that telephone call for me, will you? Another five minutes will see me through." Eves walked across to the telephone box in the corner. The following conversation ensued. "Hullo!" "Are you Mr. Wilkins?" "Am I Wilkins, Bob?" (in a whisper). "Say you’re the British Motor Garage," said Templeton. "Wilkins is out." "Are you there? Righto! We’re the British Motor Garage." "Well, I say, sorry to trouble you, but Noakes’s ’phone is out of order. Tell him he can cut his tender thirty per cent.: no other offers." "Hold on a jiff." Eves moved from the mouthpiece and turned towards Templeton. "Noakes again, Bob. Our worthy mayor. You’re to give him a message, something about cutting a tender." "Tell him I know nothing about Noakes." "Righto! Leave it to me.... Hullo! A tender cut, you said?" "Can’t you hear? I said, tell Noakes he can cut his tender by thirty per cent." "All right; I’ve got it now. But who’s Noakes, and what have we to do with him?" "Aren’t you Mr. Wilkins?" "Wilkins is out. I’m speaking from his shop." "Oh, hang!" "He’s cut off, Bob," said Eves, ruefully, hanging up the receiver. "I wanted to ask him about Methuselah. You’ve done at last?" "Yes, thank goodness!" "Well, clean yourself, and come along. Hullo! Here’s another visitor." A tall, lean, loosely-built man was hurriedly crossing the yard towards the shop door.