“My dear fellow, I don’t know,” said Tommy cheerfully. “I haven’t got it. But you know that as well as I do. I should go on looking about if I were you. I like to see you and friend Coggins playing Hide and Seek together.”
The other’s face darkened.
“You are pleased to be flippant, Mr. Blunt. You see that square box over there. That is Coggins’ little outfit. In it there is vitriol … yes, vitriol … and irons that can be heated in the fire, so that they are red hot and burn. …”
Tommy shook his head sadly.
“An error in diagnosis,” he murmured. “Tuppence and I labelled this adventure wrong. It’s not a Clubfoot story. It’s a Bull Dog Drummond, and you are the inimitable Carl Peterson.”
“What is this nonsense you are talking?” snarled the other.
“Ah!” said Tommy. “I see you are unacquainted with the Classics. A pity.”
“Ignorant fool! Will you do what we want or will you not? Shall I tell Coggins to get out his tools and begin?”
“Don’t be so impatient,” said Tommy. “Of course I’ll do what you want, as soon as you tell me what it is. You don’t suppose I want to be carved up like a filleted sole and fried on a gridiron? I loathe being hurt.”
Dymchurch looked at him in contempt.
“Gott! What cowards are these English.”
“Common sense, my dear fellow, merely common sense. Leave the vitriol alone, and let us come down to brass tacks.”