Mr Hathaway looked up from the evening paper. ‘I don’t like the look of things,’ he said.

Presently Mr Hathaway convened a meeting of the Air Raid Precautions wardens. As chairman of the Parish Council he made himself unpopular by urging that the France Green fire engine, which dated from 1895, should be overhauled. He got leaflets and distributed them. He laid in stores of brown paper and sticky paper, recommended for making rooms gasproof. He collected sacks for sandbags and made a survey of cellars. He wrote several letters asking for gas masks for the village, and, thanks to his importunity, received three. He outraged the County Education Department by suggesting that a trench should be dug in the school garden and was told that such a thing would be out of the question, as it was essential not to spread panic among children. And 187he called two Public Meetings, which would have been better attended, as those who did not attend them explained, if people were not getting up their potatoes just then.

Mr Benson, who was also a warden, spoke bitterly about the apathy of the working class. ‘They’re spoon-fed!’ he exclaimed. ‘They expect one to thrust a silver spoon into their mouths. They’re born like that.’

Mr Hathaway wrote his fifth application for a supply of gas masks and received a reply saying that they were officially termed gas respirators and would be available in due course. He also spent some time examining into the rumour, put forward by several of the oldest inhabitants, that an underground passage, long lost, ran between the church and Manor Farm.

‘Every village in England has that story,’ said Major Cullen.

Mr Hathaway remarked that France Green might be the village where the story was true.

Simultaneously with Mr Hathaway’s appeal for volunteers to dig trenches between five-thirty, when the men of France Green ceased work, and sundown, the Rector announced that the church would be open every evening between six and eight for those who wished to pray for peace.

‘What’s the use of all these precautions?’ inquired Mr Riddle. ‘I’m a bit of a fatalist, I am.’

Aided by Mr Cobb at the garage, Mr Hathaway spent the next to the last Friday evening in September trying to construct a siren, and on Saturday he returned from 188Ryebridge with all the picks and shovels he could buy. This was timely, as on Monday everyone began to dig, everyone except the women, who were attending First Aid classes, and Mr Benson, who surveyed the diggers.

Emil dug, too. He dug extremely well. After a little wary observation by the other diggers, he became very popular among them. When it was too dark to dig any longer, he produced a mouth organ and the gang marched home with a swagger. The moment dinner was over, he tore down to the kitchen where Hannah had promised to teach him how to darn sacks. At ten-thirty he reappeared, saying that all the sacks were darned and demanding cartridge paper and red paint. He was still making posters and notices when Mr and Mrs Hathaway went to bed, and when they got up next morning Hannah told them that he had made an early breakfast and gone out with his pick and shovel.