II
The boat swept shoreward.
A man with a musket, standing in the bows, was about to fire at the fugitives.
A sharp voice stayed him.
"Ne tirez point! Nous les prendrons vivants. Ce n'est qu'un seul homme et le gosse."
A bugle from the shingle-bank retorted defiantly.
"Halte!"
The boat stopped short.
The crew looked over their shoulders.
"Les soldats!"
Upon the ridge a shako bobbed up.
A figure in uniform rose and ran at it
"Keep your eads down there all along the line!" it shouted. "Wait till
I give the word, Royal Stand-backs."
The Gentleman sprang up in the boat.
"Ramez toujours, mes enfants!" he cried. "C'est une ruse!"
The men hung on their oars.
"Laches!" cried the Gentleman, smote the man on the foremost thwart a buffet, and leaping overboard floundered through the water.
The man in the bows fired.
There was no reply from the shingle-bank.
The men of the galley took courage. The boat swished through the shallows, and bumped ashore.
Out tumbled her crew, and stormed across the sand at the heels of the
Gentleman.
The Parson was staggering up the shingle-bank, the boy in his arms.
At the top he paused, heaving like an earthquake, and looked back on his scampering pursuers.
"Yes, my beauties," he panted. "You just won't do it."
Knapp, keen as a terrier, bobbed up at his side.
"Shall I charge em, sir?" his little brown eyes bursting with desire— "me and the boy. Down the ill and into em plippety-plumpety-plop! O for God's sake, sir!" whimpering, dancing. "Ave mercy as you ope for it. Let me ave me smack if it's only for the glory of the old rigiment."
"Certainly not," said the Parson sternly. "This is war, not tomfoolery."
The little man collapsed sullenly.
"From the right—retire by companies—on your sup-ports!" shouted the Parson in measured regimental voice.
From his manner he might have been addressing a Brigade and not merely Blob, disguised in an ancient shako, lying on his stomach, and armed with a hay-rake.