inn near Nutfield, whither his motor-bicycle had brought him. There smoked and meditated a person in khaki, an engineer, who presently took an interest in Bert's machine. It was a sturdy piece of apparatus, and it had acquired a kind of documentary value in these quick-changing times; it was now nearly eight years old. Its points discussed, the soldier broke into a new topic with, "My next's going to be an aeroplane, so far as I can see. I've had enough of roads and ways."
"They tork," said Bert.
"They talk — and they do," said the soldier. "The thing's coming."
"It keeps on coming," said Bert; "I shall believe when I see it."
"That won't be long," said the soldier.
The conversation seemed degenerating into an amiable wrangle of contradiction.
"I tell you they are flying," the soldier insisted. "I see it myself."
"We've all seen it," said Bert.
"I don't mean flap up and smash up; I mean real, safe, steady, controlled flying, against the wind, good and right."
"You ain't seen that!"
"I 'ave! Aldershot. They try to keep it a secret. They got it right enough. You bet — our War Office isn't going to be caught napping this time."
Bert's incredulity was shaken. He asked questions — and the soldier expanded.
"I tell you they got nearly a square mile
