'Twere the Jolly Sailor afore all they buggers from up London moved inter t'village an' landlord thort 'twere too commin fer the likes o' they, so 'ee...got the brewry ter change it. Anyways, I'm wi my mate George an' ee's just used this big werd."S'right," says George, blowin the froth off 'is beer. I ain't never too shore about the froth on the beer 'round 'ere, cos 'tis very likely that the glasses din't get rinsed proper like."Wassit mean then?" I sez. Well now, George 'as bin ter collidge. I did not know what our 'superiors' overall strategy was, the aim of the operation or the outcome if I failed. Actually I had a pretty good idea what the outcomes were if I failed-feet first at worst back to The Cross house at best. Dropping me off in the middle of this dead hole on my pat with a photo of the subject and of his current routine supplied by his secretary. Not to remove subject unless totally safe to do so and not to take longer than a week to perform the duty. Shit, I could have. More

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