practising throwing stones. “A very healthy sport,” he shouted cheerfully.
Prokop hastily put on his coat again. “Healthy and useful,” he answered readily. “What do you want me for?”
The pockets of his coat bulged out and something rattled inside them. “What have you got in your pockets?” asked Mr. Carson carelessly.
“Nitric acid,” said Prokop. “And explosives.”
“H’m. Why do you carry it in your pockets?”
“Oh, just for a joke. Is there anything you want to say to me?”
“Nothing at the moment. Particularly not at this moment,” said Mr. Carson uneasily, keeping at a fair distance. “And what have you got in those—those boxes?”
“Nails. And here,” he said, bringing a little box out of his pockets, “is some Benzoltetraoxozonid, a novelty, the dernier cri. Eh?”
“Don’t wave it about,” said Mr. Carson, retreating to a safer distance. “Is there any request you have to make?”
“Request?” said Prokop pleasantly. “I should be obliged if you would tell THEM something. To begin with, that I’m not going.”
“Good. That’s to be understood. And further?”
“And further, if anybody should inadvertently attack me . . . or try to make an assault onme . . . I hope that it isn’t your intention to murder me.”
“Certainly not. Honestly.”
“You can come nearer.”
“You won’t go up in the air?”
“I shall be careful. I only wanted to ask you
