the girders, and stays, but there will be no continuous whistling. Therefore an airship makes a perfect listening-post for enemy aircraft of all kinds.'
'I'm quite sure of that,' declared Charlie Digby from the depths of his chair. 'If we are to win the war we must fight the Zeppelin. We want a real good man at the head of affairs and we should allow him a free hand, and put a stop to the endless committees and conferences and confabulations which have been the curse of this country in every department since war began—and before. Let that man have the advice of all the specialists he may require, and let him encourage people with ideas to offer their advice, instead of turning them down, as is the custom of most people in commanding positions.'
Those same sentiments I had read in one of the papers that very day.
I said nothing more. It was time for me to be off, so I rose and left, having an appointment with Teddy Ashton.
As I passed through the big hall of the club I reflected how true were Digby's words. If we were to win the war we must fight the Zeppelins effectively.
But how?
That same question had occupied the minds of both Teddy and myself for many months, long indeed before the first Zeppelin had crossed the North Sea. Both of us had realized the deadly peril of those huge murder-machines against which we would be utterly powerless.
During the first year of war the public had laughed
