really big."

"Oh, that's Naylor--Captain Naylor. But he's not at the cottage; we're
not likely to meet him, praise be!"

"Rather wish we were! I want a little bit of exercise," said Neddy.

"Well, I don't know but what Beaumaroy might give you that. The
Sergeant's got tales about him at the war."

"Oh, blast these soldiers--they ain't no good." In what he himself
regarded as his spare hours, that is to say, the daytime hours wherein
the ordinary man labors, Neddy was a highly skilled craftsman, whose only
failing was a tendency to be late in the morning and to fall ill about
the festive seasons of the year. He made lenses, and, in spite of the
failing, his work had been deemed to be of national importance, as indeed
it was. But that did not excuse his prejudice against soldiers.

They passed through the outskirts of Sprotsfield; Mike--to use his more
familiar name--had made a thorough exploration of the place, and his
directions enabled his chauffeur to avoid the central and populous parts
of the town. Then they came out on to the open heath, passed Old Place,
and presently--about half a mile from Tower Cottage--found Sergeant
Hooper waiting for them by the roadside. It was then hard on midnight--a
dark cloudy night, very apt for their purpose. With a nod, but without a
word, the Sergeant got into the car, and in cautious whispers directed
its course to the shelter of the clump of trees; they reached it after a
few hundred yards of smooth road and some thirty of bumping over the
heath. It afforded a perfect screen from the road, and on the other side
there was only untrodden heath, no path or track being visible near it.