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THE INCORRIGIBLES AGAIN.
"What-ho, Charlie! Bit showery, ain't it?"
THE DEFENCE OF AMBERRY PARVA.
Amberry Parva certainly existed before Shakspeare's time, but I doubt if Shakspeare ever saw it. For which he was so much the poorer, seeing that Amberry is a faithful microcosm of much of England.
Thomas Fallow, Aaron West and George Hangar are all friends of mine. Though still comparative youthful, they are the shining lights of the Amberry Rural Council, self-trained to face a crisis or an emergency with calm and steady bearing. When I came upon them last week they were seated about the bench outside the door of "The Three Cups." A fourth man—a small hairy stranger—was addressing them.
Thomas Fallow motioned me to halt.
"We're consultin'," he explained, "with Mr. Chittenden as keeps the baccy-shop in Wream."
Now Wream is a shade—the merest shade—more important (in its own esteem) than Amberry. It sits astride the same high road that the Romans carved seawards a thousand-odd years ago, and supplies us with newspapers, telegrams and gossip. While we score in the possession of two tin chapels to their one, we writhe inwardly over a Diamond Jubilee Fountain which we cannot hope to surpass.
"Mr. Chittenden," pursued Thomas, "brings noos."
"Good news?" I asked.
Mr. Chittenden, like the Eldest Oyster, shook his heavy head.
"Heard it from a natteralized German two days ago. It seems that they're goin' to make a fresh dash with invisible Zeppelins. Once they can e—vade the ships that's watchin'———"
He left the sentence unfinished.
"Consequence o' which," said George Hangar, "we've gone an' made ourselves into an Informal Committee o' Defence, same as sits night an' day in the War Office in London. An' the question before the meetin' is, what's to be done if some fine day we wakes up to find a couple o' thousand black 'elmets marchin' down the main road?"
"Ambush 'em," said Thomas Fallow definitely. "Told you so afore. Lie behind the 'edges an' pick 'em off. My old rook-rifle'd roll 'em over proper. Shoot straight an' keep on shootin'."
Aaron made a scornful noice in his throat.
"An' them as did get in the village'd punish us for them as didn't! Burnin', killin' and' worse."
"Then outflank'em," insisted Thomas doggedly. "Let 'em 'ave their fill of advancin', same as old Joffer done, an' then ketch 'em in the side an' discriminate 'em."
"You're not agoin' to do that with the men left in Amberry," said Aaron. He was a market-gardener by trade. "'Twould be like a dozen sparrers tryin' to outflank a steam-roller. Trenchin's the thing. Dig deep, an' lay the soil loose 'long the far edge. There's a decent bit o' shelter by Whemmick's Cottages."
"The best bein' opposite Number Five," added Fallow, whereat there was a bellow of laughter, and Aaron flushed magnificently, for at Number Five lives Molly Garner, wooed by Aaron, but as yet hesitating between him and the Wream plumber.
George Hangar, who up to the present had scarcely spoken, intervened. He has a badd voice, which on Sundays makes the little roof of the United Bunyan's quiver; for the other six days of the week he works at a carpenter's bench in an open-fronted shed. He has a sound knowledge of timber, and is no ignoramus concerning the values of Hepplewhite and Sheraton.
"You're wrong," he roared. "Silly-minded an' wrong! This ain't the
