IV
"Now, Blob!—nippy with the table there!"
Out they rushed, and dumped the table down on the left of the door.
"That'll do, sir, thank you," said the old man, trundling out after them. "That'll cover my flank nicely…. Butter-my-wig!" with kindling eyes on the battle, "but Mr. Joy's busy."
"Come on, Blob!" yelled Kit.
"Come along, boys!" roared the Parson. "Pretty work forrad, and plenty for all!"
The Gentleman rose white-faced from his knees.
"A moil a moil" he shouted, waving.
Behind him Kit heard a yell, and the crash and scatter of men storming down the shingle-bank.
Then silence as they took the grass.
He flung his head across his shoulder as he ran.
The lugger-guard, loosed at last, were hurling across the greensward at him, bayonets at the charge.
Such tall and terrible men!—and how they strode along, bearskins a- bob, savage eyes smouldering, snapping fierce phrases at each other as they came!
Kit loosed his soul in a ghastly scream.
"Back, Blob!"
It was well done, and not difficult to do. He had but to utter the horror that was in him.
"O, Kit!" came the Parson's resentful bellow.
"I'm afraid!" screamed the lad. "I can't help it. O-o-o-h!"
He ran with huddled head, clutching at the boy before him.
"Attrapez ces gaillards! Ne tirez pas!" shouted the Gentleman. "Un deux d'entre vous leur coupent le chemin! Les autres, par ici!"
"Ah, oui, mon Général!" panted the Corporal. "Francois! Albert!"
Two men sprang away from the rest and raced to intercept the boys.
What a pace they ran! Their black-gaitered legs seemed to skim the ground.
The boy had not allowed for such speed.
"Toi de l'autre côté de la chaumière. Moi ici!" called the swifter of the two.
He flashed behind the cottage, and flashed up again round the gable- end.
Kit recognised him. It was François, his friend of the dawn.
"Tiens! c'est toi, mon gars!" cried the man, with a quick smile.
A simple countryman, this François, he was a soldier because he had to be. That business beyond the wall, where the swords and shouts were, was little to his liking. This was a job after his own heart. He was a boy playing prisoner's base with another boy. Neither would be hurt.
So as he slewed round the gable-end he smiled.
Kit saw the smile and resented it. It angered him that this fellow did not take him seriously. He had not to resent it for long.
The smile died a swift and terrible death on François' face.
"Dâme!" he screamed, and slithered back on his heels. A musket barrel was thrusting into his flank.
"Pray!" said a solemn voice.
There was a horrible plop as the man collapsed, coughing.