Part 9 (1/2)

”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 gla.s.ses 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 public officials we shall have all Kent in tatters,” said Cossar. ”Now is there--anything? _No!

HI_!”

He stretched a vast hand towards a cab that became convulsively eager to serve him (”Cab, Sir?” said the cabman. ”Obviously,” said Cossar); and Bensington, still hatless, paddled down the steps and prepared to mount.

”I _think_,” he said, with his hand on the cab ap.r.o.n, and a sudden glance up at the windows of his flat, ”I _ought_ to tell my cousin Jane--”