"Patrick O'Brien!" the voice said with sudden sternness. "Shame on you! It's a fanciful lad you've always been, and I've been of a mind to forgive you it for bein' a comfort to yer gouty ma, but when you start callin' up a poor tired cop like me and runnin' off at the mouth about gassy girls and yellin' butterflies.... Shame is all I've got to say to you." "I didn't even mention the water hose," Pat said stubbornly. "It's the end of the world, I'm confident." "It's the bottom of the bottle!" the voice snapped. "My advice to you is to soak yer head in cold water and say a prayer that the devil doesn't take yer soul. Goodbye to you." The telephone clicked loudly in Pat O'Brien's ear. "Faith," Pat said sadly. "And that's the last time I'll hold conversation with the law." He slumped back on his stool and turned his eyes to the company rules which were pasted on the wall; there was no mention anywhere as to proper procedures in the event of the world's end. * * * * * Outside, however, the struggle at the pumps came to an abrupt end as Cecil won possession of the revolver. He turned and aimed it at Marc. Promptly the splatter of gasoline stopped, as did that of the water. "All right," Cecil said, "get back in the car and wake up Gerald." For a moment Marc and Toffee stood motionless, gazing at the fanatic gleam in Cecil's eyes. Then slowly they turned and started toward the car. Both of them knew very surely that the little man would hesitate considerably less than a second at the act of murdering a man ... or a city.... CHAPTER XI Though it couldn't possibly have been more than a couple of hours, it seemed that they had been twisting and turning through the night for eternities. Long ago the lights of the city had slipped away into the darkness behind them. Marc had completely lost track of where they were. George, the unpredictable ghost, after a brief narrative about how he had fender-hopped his way back into Marc and Toffee's company, had drifted off into unconcerned and discordant slumber. Between snores, made forgetful by sleep, he had fully and completely materialized. If the Blemishes noted the exactness of the ghost's features to Marc's they didn't bother to comment on it; apparently the brothers, in their feverish dementia, were perfectly willing to credit anything as natural. Gerald sped the car through a long wooded lane, then turned sharply to the right into a private drive. At last, for better or for worse ... with the balance heavy on the less attractive side ... Marc and Toffee arrived at the destination chosen for them by their crazed captors.