"Skinner?" Bensington was saying, regardless of his approach.
"Nothing about him," said Redwood. "Bound to be eaten. Both of them. It's too horrible. . . . 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 gun-smith'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.
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