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Updated: June 19, 2025
Some sort of kiln. Prosperous-looking country..." The respectability of the country's appearance awakened answering chords in his nature. "Make myself a bit ship-shape first," he said. He threw out a bag of ballast, and was astonished to find himself careering up through the air very rapidly. "Blow!" said Mr. Smallways.
One quarrel makes many, and this unpleasantness led to a violent dispute between Grubb and the landlord upon the moral aspects of and legal responsibility for the consequent re-glazing. In the end Grubb and Smallways were put to the expense of a strategic nocturnal removal to another position. It was a position they had long considered.
The New York Bert Smallways saw, for all its glare of light and traffic, was in the pit of an economic and financial collapse unparalleled in history. The flow of the food supply was already a little checked.
That's the position, Smallways. We're driving through the air like a common aerostat, at the mercy of the elements, almost due north probably to the North Pole. We don't know what aeroplanes the Americans have, or anything at all about it. Very likely we have finished 'em up. One fouled us, one was struck by lightning, some of the men saw a third upset, apparently just for fun.
I wish we could see it, Smallways; a square fight in blue water, guns or nothing, and all of 'em steaming ahead!" He spread his maps, he had to talk, and so he delivered a lecture on the naval situation to Bert.
"There was us in Europe all at sixes and sevens with our silly flags and our silly newspapers raggin' us up against each other and keepin' us apart," says Smallways, and for the briefest analysis of causes that continually threaten us with all the useless horrors of war, the summary could scarcely be bettered.
But for that little hitch the ripping-cord would have torn the balloon open as though it had been slashed by a sword, and hurled Mr. Smallways to eternity at the rate of some thousand feet a second. "No go!" he said, giving it a final tug. Then he lunched.
In face and expression he was curiously like that old Thomas Smallways who had once been coachman to Sir Peter Bone, and this was just as it should be, for he was Tom Smallways the son, who formerly kept the little green-grocer's shop under the straddle of the mono-rail viaduct in the High Street of Bun Hill.
"Here!" he said, "get off this locker." And he proceeded to rout out two books and a case of maps. He spread them on the folding-table, and stood regarding them. For a time his Germanic discipline struggled with his English informality and his natural kindliness and talkativeness, and at last lost. "They're at it, Smallways," he said. "At what, sir?" said Bert, broken and respectful. "Fighting!
"You'd hardly think it could keep on," he said. Mr. Smallways' aged father, could remember Bun Hill as an idyllic Kentish village. He had driven Sir Peter Bone until he was fifty and then he took to drink a little, and driving the station bus, which lasted him until he was seventy-eight. Then he retired.
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