"Humph! You were never renowned for imagination, Cannington," I said kindly, "and in your particular case it doesn't much matter. You're the man behind the gun, and all you have to do is to fire against the seen enemy." "Huh! Why, half the firing is against the unseen enemy. If I haven't got your rotten imagination, Vance, I've got common-sense, and that's what you jolly well need." "Rash youth, to speak thus to the man at the wheel. Don't you know that, with a little dexterity, I could shoot you into yonder ditch?" "You'd travel with me," he sniggered. "Why not? It would be an excellent advertisement for a popular playwright." "Playwright be hanged! You only write beastly melodramas." "Precisely; that is why I am popular. And if I'm not a playwright, what am I?" "A carpenter. You collar other people's ideas----" "Like your friend Marr," I interpolated. "And knock them into weird shapes for second-rate theatres." "Not at all," I rejoined tartly, for the criticism piqued me. "I scour the country in search of flesh and blood tragedies, and improve them into moral lessons for the British Public. But you're talking all round the shop, my lad. Who is this Marr, of whom your sister approves, and why does he write down other people's ideas in her album?" "Wentworth Marr." Cannington lighted another cigarette, and explained: "He's a well-preserved old buck of--I should say--fifty, and looks forty. Unmarried, with heaps of tin and no family. Mabel likes him." "And he likes Lady Mabel, or loves her. Which is it?" "Well"--Cannington drawled this out reluctantly--"he's in love with her, sure enough. And, of course, Mabel is as poor as I am, and Marr having no end of shekels, you see----" "What about Dick Weston?" I broke in abruptly. "Oh, he's too much taken up with his inventions to bother about love. Poor Mab feels it," sighed Cannington, "so she flirts with Marr." "To keep her hand in, I suppose. She'll burn her fingers. Tell me all about it, boy, if it will relieve your mind." "I have told you all. Mabel wants to marry Dick Weston, and I think he wants to marry her, only he's too much taken up with his airship to trouble about proposing. Wentworth Marr is wealthy and a gentleman and all that, and wants to make Mabel his wife. She likes him, but she doesn't love him. Still there's the money, you see, Vance." "Weston is also rich," I suggested. "Well, I know that," snapped Cannington testily, "but he's an absent-minded beggar, who lives in the clouds along with his bally airship, and won't come up to the scratch. I say," he broke off, "don't secure a paragraph for your confounded transpontine plays by running over that child." "Little beast!" The child in question was playing "Who's across first," and I had considerable difficulty in dodging him. However, I just managed to avoid a Coroner's Inquest and swung the machine along the straight Roman road, while the escaped infant shouted insultingly behind.