terrible.... Hullo! Cossar!"

"This your stuff?" asked Cossar, waving the paper.

"Well, why don't you stop it?" he demanded.

"_Can't_ be jiggered!" said Cossar.

"_Buy the place_?" he cried. "What nonsense! Burn it! I knew you chaps
would fumble this. _What are you to do_? Why--what I tell you.

"_You_? Do? Why! Go up the street to the gunsmith's, of course. _Why_?
For guns. Yes--there's only one shop. Get eight guns! Rifles. Not
elephant guns--no! Too big. Not army rifles--too small. Say it's to
kill--kill a bull. Say it's to shoot buffalo! See? Eh? Rats? No! How the
deuce are they to understand that? Because we _want_ eight. Get a lot of
ammunition. Don't get guns without ammunition--No! Take the lot in a cab
to--where's the place? _Urshot_? Charing Cross, then. There's a
train---Well, the first train that starts after two. Think you can do
it? All right. License? Get eight at a post-office, of course. Gun
licenses, you know. Not game. Why? It's rats, man.

"You--Bensington. Got a telephone? Yes. I'll ring up five of my chaps
from Ealing. _Why_ five? Because it's the right number!

"Where you going, Redwood? Get a hat! _Nonsense_. Have mine. You want
guns, man--not hats. Got money? Enough? All right. So long.

"Where's the telephone, Bensington?"

Bensington wheeled about obediently and led the way.

Cossar used and replaced the instrument. "Then there's the wasps," he
said. "Sulphur and nitre'll do that. Obviously. Plaster of Paris. You're
a chemist. Where can I get sulphur by the ton in portable sacks? _What_
for? Why, Lord _bless_ my heart and soul!--to smoke out the nest, of
course! I suppose it must be sulphur, eh? You're a chemist. Sulphur
best, eh?"

"Yes, I should _think_ sulphur."

"Nothing better?"

"Right. That's your job. That's all right. Get as much sulphur as you
can--saltpetre to make it burn. Sent? Charing Cross. Right away. See
they do it. Follow it up. Anything?"

He thought a moment.

"Plaster of Paris--any sort of plaster--bung up nest--holes--you know.
That _I'd_ better get."

"How much?"

"How much what?"

"Sulphur."

"Ton. See?"

Bensington tightened his glasses with a hand tremulous with
determination. "Right," he said, very curtly.

"Money in your pocket?" asked Cossar.

"Hang cheques. They may not know you. Pay cash. Obviously. Where's your
bank? All right. Stop on the way and get forty pounds--notes and gold."

Another meditation. "If we leave this job for