The mere idea was unbearable, and that evening one of the men brought down the Agricultural Journal.
"Here's a chapter," said he, "on the only effective way to rid a house of Six-and-eightpence's moss—quitoes. It's very dangerous, and the chapter concludes with directions and pictures as to how to revive anyone who is caught by the fumes before they can bolt. It's much the same as for drowned people. You work their arms and legs up and down, don't you know, and pull out their tongues, and so on."
"Oh, dear," put in Veronica, "I don't feel up to any more dangers. The thunderstorms have stopped for a bit, and I'm longing for some peace. It's not two days since Jaikeran used Jay's Purifier for the pudding instead of milk, finding some mixed ready in a jug, and then put nails and screws into the pudding in mistake for cloves. And what I feel is, do let's have a spell of rest!"
"The thunderstorms may come on any day again," said Mr. H——, "and I don't like moss—quitoes any more than Six-and-eightpence does, and we might have to turn into the house to sleep."
"Decidedly," said our solicitor, trying to scratch his shoulder-blades as gracefully as might be. "I am for exterminating the moss—quitoes."
So it's to be done. We have spent evenings reading up the directions, and it is plain we run the risk of losing our lives, for when the chemist at the nearest town received our order for enough vitriol and prussic acid to finish off a colony, he protested and refused to supply it, making sure some huge plot was on to wipe out the population. Someone is always writing to the papers to say that some section of the community must be got rid of for the good of the country, and the chemist said he would have nothing to do with it.
"But," explained our solicitor, "it's for—ahem—moss—quitoes."
"Oh," said the chemist, greatly relieved, "all right, then; but you must sign for it, please, sir. And I suppose you know the risks? One drop of this vitriol splashing into your face will burn to the bone. As for the prussic acid, a grain wafted by the wind to your open mouth, and you're a dead man."
"Thank you," said Six-and-eightpence, trying to look as if the prospect rather pleased him than otherwise; "good morning!"
Six-and-eightpence sent me a message by the butcher—would I come in to help him carry back the ingredients? The other men had declined, saying they were his moss—quitoes, not theirs, and he was afraid, if he tried to carry eight gallon-bottles of vitriol and nine jars of cyanide (which is prussic acid) down the hill to our cottage, they might fall, and the vitriol burn out his eyes. So I went in to help.