In a moment Cecil returned, dragging several lengths of chain after him. At gun point, Marc and Toffee seated themselves in chairs at the far side of the room and submitted unhappily to an iron-clad captivity. George, however, was permitted to move about freely; the brothers had quite rightly reasoned that since ghosts were notorious for romping about in chains, George would probably be quite unhampered by them. After that, cautioning Marc to get to work immediately thinking about the formula, they dispatched themselves to the huge contrivance in the center of the room and began busily setting dials and levers.
Marc and Toffee considered the current state of affairs without heart. Toffee turned to George, who had left the catapult and had now arranged himself lazily on a nearby scaffolding. She smiled demurely.
"Nice George," she cooed. "You're going to help us, aren't you George? You're not going to leave us sitting here in these awful cold chains. We might catch cold."
George crossed his arms complacently over his chest and shook his head. "You should have been nicer to me," he said pettishly.
"If there's anything I hate," Toffee said, "it's a spoiled spook." She turned to Marc. "What are we going to do?"
Marc shrugged hopelessly. "Just stall, I guess," he said, "as long as we can, anyway."
"And then what?" Toffee asked. "Are you going to give them the formula?"
Marc shook his head. "No."
"They'll kill you."