The brickmaker would have got him whisky, but the doctor would not be left alone with nothing but a flickering light just then.
It was long before the brickmaker could get him to go upstairs....
And when the fire was out the giant rats came back, took the dead horse, dragged it across the churchyard into the brickfield and ate at it until it was dawn, none even then daring to disturb them....
II.
Redwood went round, to Bensington about eleven the next morning with the “second editions” of three evening papers in his hand.
Bensington looked up from a despondent meditation over the forgotten pages of the most distracting novel the Brompton Road librarian had been able to find him. “Anything fresh?” he asked.
“Two men stung near Chartham.”
“They ought to let us smoke out that nest. They really did. It’s their own fault.”
“It’s their own fault, certainly,” said Redwood.
“Have you heard anything—about buying the farm?”