This was particularly the case for an hour or so after he had taken a stiff whisky.

"Shan't go back to Sloane Street," he confided to the tall, fair, dirty engineer.
"You won't, eh ?" "No fear," said Bensington, nodding darkly.
The exertion of dragging the seven dead rats to the funeral pyre by the nettle grove left him bathed in perspiration, and Cossar pointed out the obvious physical reaction of whisky to save him from the otherwise inevitable chill.

There was a sort of brigand's supper in the old bricked kitchen, with the row of dead rats lying in the moonlight against the hen-runs outside, and after thirty minutes or so of rest, Cossar roused them all to the labours that were still to do.
"Obviously," as he said, they had to "wipe the place out.

No litter--no scandal.

See ?" He stirred them up to the idea of making destruction complete.