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It was, even in this trifling detail, a homelike landscape, for Bill had told us how, from the square hall window of High Wigborough, you could see the white puffs of invisible trains on the lonely little loopline from Wivenhoe to Brightlingsea. A few moments, and one by one, and in the case of Wederslen and Williams arm-in-arm, our neighbours hove into view out of the valley, saluted and passed.
Meanwhile, Germany had been pushing forward Zeppelin design and straining every nerve in the improvement of rigid dirigible construction, until L.33 was evolved; she was generally known as a super-Zeppelin, and on September 24th, 1916, six weeks after her launching, she was damaged by gun-fire in a raid over London, being eventually compelled to come to earth at Little Wigborough in Essex.
Some three weeks later, on a day in the middle of November, we received a bulky letter with a Wigborough postmark on a two-cent stamp. The excess, I recall, was nine cents, gladly paid by me while Bill was tearing off the end of the envelope. "Yes," she said, scanning the sheets quickly, "it seems to be. Here " We adjourned to the studio.
With a spring the car leaped from the kerb no other word will describe the starting of that car. I suppose it must have been at least a hundred horse power. In a flash it was round the corner and gone. I climbed into my cab and made my humble way to Liverpool Street, eventually reaching Wigborough, and taking up the daily round and the common task. "Now what do you think of that chap, Bill?
Mac seated himself before a half-finished cover for the Christmas Number of Payne's Monthly, Bill took up a leather collar-bag destined to be Cecil's Yule-tide present, and I began to read. "High Wigborough, Essex. "MY DEAR BILL, Many thanks for your jolly letter. I write at once to tell you how awfully interested I am in what you tell me.
Our home is called Wigboro' House, after the cousin's, and we have settled it that, just as you catch a glimpse of grey sea across Mersea Island from Wigborough, so we may catch the glint and glare of the lights of Manhattan, and, on stormy nights, feel on our lips the sharpness of the salt wind that blows across Staten Island from the Atlantic.
"A letter from Cecil," said Bill as I took my seat, a little downcast at the encounter. Cecil is the painter-cousin, at Wigborough, Essex, England. "What does he say?" I inquired. "Read it to us," said she, and handed me a dozen sheets of tracing paper pinned together. I began to read. Dear Bill, At last I find myself with an hour or so to spare, so here goes! How are you all? Well, I hope.
We agreed that the ink had dragged in one corner. Bill handed me the painter-cousin's letter. "High Wigborough, "Essex.
"We talked on like this, giving each other little items of information about different fellows we knew, and gradually I gave him my own history, what there is of it. There isn't much, as you know; Slade, Beaux Arts, Chelsea, and now Wigborough. He wasn't a bit interested, didn't seem to know what the word artist meant. Regular stereotyped public-school man in that.
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