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Behind, like some fantastic fungus, this smoke pillar swayed and
fluctuated, up, up, into the sky--making the Downs seem low and all
other objects petty, and in the foreground, led by Cossar, the makers of
this mischief followed the path, eight little black figures coming
wearily, guns shouldered, across the meadow.
As Bensington looked back there came into his jaded brain, and echoed
there, a familiar formula. What was it? "You have lit to-day--? You have
lit to-day--?" Then he remembered Latimer's words: "We have lit this day
such a candle in England as no man may ever put out again--"
What a man Cossar was, to be sure! He admired his back view for a space,
and was proud to have held that hat. Proud! Although he was an eminent
investigator and Cossar only engaged in applied science.
Suddenly he fell shivering and yawning enormously and wishing he was
warmly tucked away in bed in his little flat that looked out upon Sloane
Street. (It didn't do even to think of Cousin Jane.) His legs became
cotton strands, his feet lead. He wondered if any one would get them
coffee in Hickleybrow. He had never been up all night for
three-and-thirty years.
VIII.
And while these eight adventurers fought with rats about the
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