Cloete swears at him in whispers something awful.

All this in the saloon bar of the Horse Shoe, Tottenham Court Road.

Finally they agree, over the second sixpennyworth of Scotch hot, on five hundred pounds as the price of tomahawking the _Sagamore_.

And Cloete waits to see what George can do.
"A week or two goes by.

The other fellow loafs about the house as if there had been nothing, and Cloete begins to doubt whether he really means ever to tackle that job.