Write it down, Algy, or we might forget. Now, can you beat that?"
"We might have some chance," said Darrell kindly, "if we had the slightest idea what you were talking about."
"I should have thought it was perfectly obvious," returned Hugh coldly. "You know, Peter, your worry is that you're too quick on the uptake. Your brain is too sharp."
"How do you spell connecting?" demanded Algy, looking up from his labours. "And, anyway, the damn pencil won't write."
"Pay attention, all of you," said Hugh. "Tonight, some time about ten of the clock, Algy's motor will proceed along the Godalming-Guildford road. It will contain you three—also Ted and Jerry Seymour, if we can get 'em. On approaching the gate of The Elms, you will render the night hideous with your vocal efforts. Stray passers-by will think that you are all tight. Then will come the dramatic moment, when, with a heavy crash, you ram the gate."
"How awfully jolly!" spluttered Algy. "I beg to move that your car be used for the event."
"Can't be done, old son," laughed Hugh. "Mine's faster than yours, and I'll be wanting it myself. Now—to proceed. Horrified at this wanton damage to property, you will leave the car and proceed in mass formation up the drive."
"Still giving tongue?" queried Darrell.
"Still giving tongue. Either Ted or Jerry or both of 'em will approach the house and inform the owner in heart-broken accents that they have damaged
