Uncle Masterman must die some day; as long as Uncle Joseph was alive, he might have died any day; but we're out of all that trouble now: there's no sort of limit to the game that I propose--it can be kept up till Kingdom Come.' 'If I could only see how you meant to set about it' sighed John.

'But you know, Morris, you always were such a bungler.' 'I'd like to know what I ever bungled,' cried Morris; 'I have the best collection of signet rings in London.' 'Well, you know, there's the leather business,' suggested the other.
'That's considered rather a hash.' It was a mark of singular self-control in Morris that he suffered this to pass unchallenged, and even unresented.
'About the business in hand,' said he, 'once we can get him up to Bloomsbury, there's no sort of trouble.

We bury him in the cellar, which seems made for it; and then all I have to do is to start out and find a venal doctor.' 'Why can't we leave him where he is ?' asked John.
'Because we know nothing about the country,' retorted Morris.

'This wood may be a regular lovers' walk.

Turn your mind to the real difficulty.
How are we to get him up to Bloomsbury ?' Various schemes were mooted and rejected.