The paper turned red.

"Hades," said Linton calmly. "Well, I'm not going to sweat at it any
more. Let's go down to Cook's."

Cook's is the one school institution which nobody forgets who has been
to Wrykyn. It is a little confectioner's shop in the High Street. Its
exterior is somewhat forbidding, and the uninitiated would probably
shudder and pass on, wondering how on earth such a place could find a
public daring enough to support it by eating its wares. But the school
went there in flocks. Tea at Cook's was the alternative to a study
tea. There was a large room at the back of the shop, and here oceans
of hot tea and tons of toast were consumed. The staff of Cook's
consisted of Mr. Cook, late sergeant in a line regiment, six foot
three, disposition amiable, left leg cut off above the knee by a
spirited Fuzzy in the last Soudan war; Mrs. Cook, wife of the above,
disposition similar, and possessing the useful gift of being able to
listen to five people at one and the same time; and an invisible
menial, or menials, who made toast in some nether region at a
perfectly dizzy rate of speed. Such was Cook's.

"Talking of Cook's," said Dunstable, producing his pamphlet, "have you
seen this? It'll be a bit of a knock-out for them, I should think."

Linton took the paper, and began to read. Dunstable roamed curiously
about the laboratory, examining things.

"What are these little crystal sort of bits of stuff?" he asked,
coming to a standstill before a large jar and opening it. "They look