The War in the Air. H. G. Wells

pounds on 'em. We could easy do that to-morrow before anybody much was about. …”

      “Nice to think of old Suet-and-Bones coming round to make his usual row with us, and finding a card up 'Closed for Repairs.'”

      “We'll do that,” said Grubb with zest—“we'll do that. And we'll put up another notice, and jest arst all inquirers to go round to 'im and inquire. See? Then they'll know all about us.”

      Before the day was out the whole enterprise was planned. They decided at first that they would call themselves the Naval Mr. O's, a plagiarism, and not perhaps a very good one, from the title of the well-known troupe of “Scarlet Mr. E's,” and Bert rather clung to the idea of a uniform of bright blue serge, with a lot of gold lace and cord and ornamentation, rather like a naval officer's, but more so. But that had to be abandoned as impracticable, it would have taken too much time and money to prepare. They perceived they must wear some cheaper and more readily prepared costume, and Grubb fell back on white dominoes. They entertained the notion for a time of selecting the two worst machines from the hiring-stock, painting them over with crimson enamel paint, replacing the bells by the loudest sort of motor-horn, and doing a ride about to begin and end the entertainment. They doubted the advisability of this step.

      “There's people in the world,” said Bert, “who wouldn't recognise us, who'd know them bicycles again like a shot, and we don't want to go on with no old stories. We want a fresh start.”

      “I do,” said Grubb, “badly.”

      “We want to forget things—and cut all these rotten old worries. They ain't doin' us good.”

      Nevertheless, they decided to take the risk of these bicycles, and they decided their costumes should be brown stockings and sandals, and cheap unbleached sheets with a hole cut in the middle, and wigs and beards of tow. The rest their normal selves! “The Desert Dervishes,” they would call themselves, and their chief songs would be those popular ditties, “In my Trailer,” and “What Price Hair-pins Now?”

      They decided to begin with small seaside places, and gradually, as they gained confidence, attack larger centres. To begin with they selected Littlestone in Kent, chiefly because of its unassuming name.

      So they planned, and it seemed a small and unimportant thing to them that as they clattered the governments of half the world and more were drifting into war. About midday they became aware of the first of the evening-paper placards shouting to them across the street:————————————————————————

      THE WAR-CLOUD DARKENS———————————————————————

      Nothing else but that.

      “Always rottin' about war now,” said Bert.

      “They'll get it in the neck in real earnest one of these days, if they ain't precious careful.”

      4

      So you will understand the sudden apparition that surprised rather than delighted the quiet informality of Dymchurch sands. Dymchurch was one of the last places on the coast of England to be reached by the mono-rail, and so its spacious sands were still, at the time of this story, the secret and delight of quite a limited number of people. They went there to flee vulgarity and extravagances, and to bathe and sit and talk and play with their children in peace, and the Desert Dervishes did not please them at all.

      The two white figures on scarlet wheels came upon them out of the infinite along the sands from Littlestone, grew nearer and larger and more audible, honk-honking and emitting weird cries, and generally threatening liveliness of the most aggressive type. “Good heavens!” said Dymchurch, “what's this?”

      Then our young men, according to a preconcerted plan, wheeled round from file to line, dismounted and stood it attention. “Ladies and gentlemen,” they said, “we beg to present ourselves—the Desert Dervishes.” They bowed profoundly.

      The few scattered groups upon the beach regarded them with horror for

      the most part, but some of the children and young people were interested

      and drew nearer. “There ain't a bob on the beach,” said Grubb in an

      undertone, and the Desert Dervishes plied their bicycles with comic

      “business,” that got a laugh from one very unsophisticated little boy.

      Then they took a deep breath and struck into the cheerful strain of

      “What Price Hair-pins Now?” Grubb sang the song, Bert did his best to

      make the chorus a rousing one, and it the end of each verse they danced

      certain steps, skirts in hand, that they had carefully rehearsed.

       “Ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-tang …

       What Price Hair-pins Now?”

      So they chanted and danced their steps in the sunshine on Dymchurch beach, and the children drew near these foolish young men, marvelling that they should behave in this way, and the older people looked cold and unfriendly.

      All round the coasts of Europe that morning banjos were ringing, voices were bawling and singing, children were playing in the sun, pleasure-boats went to and fro; the common abundant life of the time, unsuspicious of all dangers that gathered darkly against it, flowed on its cheerful aimless way. In the cities men fussed about their businesses and engagements. The newspaper placards that had cried “wolf!” so often, cried “wolf!” now in vain.

      5

      Now as Bert and Grubb bawled their chorus for the third time, they

      became aware of a very big, golden-brown balloon low in the sky to the

      north-west, and coming rapidly towards them. “Jest as we're gettin' hold

      of 'em,” muttered Grubb, “up comes a counter-attraction. Go it, Bert!”

       “Ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-ting-a-ling-a-tang

       What Price Hair-pins Now?”

      The balloon rose and fell, went out of sight—“landed, thank goodness,” said Grubb—re-appeared with a leap. “'ENG!” said Grubb. “Step it, Bert, or they'll see it!”

      They finished their dance, and then stood frankly staring.

      “There's something wrong with that balloon,” said Bert.

      Everybody now was looking at the balloon, drawing rapidly nearer before a brisk north-westerly breeze. The song and dance were a “dead frost.” Nobody thought any more about it. Even Bert and Grubb forgot it, and ignored the next item on the programme altogether. The balloon was bumping as though its occupants were trying to land; it would approach, sinking slowly, touch the ground, and instantly jump fifty feet or so in the air and immediately begin to fall again. Its car touched a clump of trees, and the black figure that had been struggling in the ropes fell back, or jumped back, into the car. In another moment it was quite close. It seemed a huge affair, as big as a house, and it floated down swiftly towards the sands; a long rope trailed behind it, and enormous shouts came from the man in the car. He seemed to be taking off his clothes, then his head came over the side of the car. “Catch hold of the rope!” they heard, quite plain.

      “Salvage, Bert!” cried Grubb, and started to head off the rope.

      Bert followed him, and collided, without upsetting, with a fisherman bent upon a similar errand. A woman carrying a baby in her arms, two small boys with toy spades, and a stout gentleman in flannels all got to the trailing rope at about the same time, and began to dance over it in their attempts to secure it. Bert came up to this wriggling, elusive serpent and got his foot on it, went down on all fours and achieved a grip. In half a dozen seconds the whole diffused population of the beach had, as it were, crystallised on the rope, and was pulling against the balloon under the vehement and stimulating directions of the man in the car.