'Mr. Leggatt come out noble as your employee, and, by 'Eaven's divine grace, instead of arguing, he pleaded his new paint and varnish which was Mr. Morshed's one vital spot (he's lootenant on one of the new catch-'em-alive-o's now). "True," says he, "paint's an 'oly thing. I'll give you one hour to arrange a _modus vivendi_. Full bunkers and steam ready by 9 P.M. to-night, _if_ you please." 'Even so, Mr. Leggatt was far from content. _I_ 'ad to arrange the details. We run her into the yard here.' Pyecroft nodded through the window at my car's glossy back-panels. 'We took off the body with its mats and put it in the stable, substitooting (and that yard's a tight fit for extensive repairs) the body of uncle's blue delivery cart. It overhung a trifle, but after I'd lashed it I knew it wouldn't fetch loose. Thus, in our composite cruiser, we repaired once more to the hotel, and was immediately dispatched to the toy-shop in the High Street where we took aboard one rocking-horse which was waiting for us.' 'Took aboard _what_?' I cried. 'One fourteen-hand dapple-grey rocking-horse, with pure green rockers and detachable tail, pair gashly glass eyes, complete set 'orrible grinnin' teeth, and two bloody-red nostrils which, protruding from the brown papers, produced the _tout ensemble_ of a Ju-ju sacrifice in the Benin campaign. Do I make myself comprehensible?' 'Perfectly. Did you say anything?' I asked. 'Only to Jules. To him, I says, wishing to try him. "_Allez à votre bateau. Je say mon Lootenong. Eel voo donneray porkwor_." To me, says he, "_Vous ong ate hurroo! Jamay de la vee_!" and I saw by his eye he'd taken on for the full term of the war. Jules was a blue-eyed, brindle-haired beggar of a useful make and inquirin' habits. Your Mr. Leggatt he only groaned.' Leggatt nodded. 'It was like nightmares,' he said. 'It was like nightmares.' 'Once more, then,' Pyecroft swept on, 'we returned to the hotel and partook of a sumptuous repast, under the able and genial chairmanship of our Mr. Morshed, who laid his projecks unreservedly before us. "In the first place," he says, opening out bicycle-maps, "my uncle, who, I regret to say, is a brigadier-general, has sold his alleged soul to Dicky Bridoon for a feathery hat and a pair o' gilt spurs. Jules, _conspuez l'oncle_!" So Jules, you'll be glad to hear--' 'One minute, Pye,' I said. 'Who is Dicky Bridoon?'