Mr. Purdie's last despairing cry cut sharply across Percival's peals of laughter—then the crash. The fluttering beat of wings as a cloud of chaffinches, terrified by this amazing avalanche, burst from the floor of the wood beyond the hedge, then peal on peal of laughter again from Percival.
In muffled tones from the depth of the hedge: "It is a miracle we are not killed. Where are you, Percival?"
Percival checked his mirth sufficiently to reply: "Well, I don't know where I am! My head is down here, but where my legs are I don't know."
"One of them is under me and hurting me terribly. Move, please."
Between the peals of laughter: "I can't move, Mr. Purdie. I'm practically standing on my head, you know."
"I don't know anything about it. My face is almost in something highly unpleasant—a dead bird, I think. Please stop that laughter and try to do something. The odour here is most noisome."
"Well, but I can't stop laughing. Did you see us shoot?"
"Please try to control yourself. I did not see us shoot."
A mighty effort causes Percival's head and shoulders to come up with a jerk; Mr. Purdie feels the weight of pupil and tricycle removed from his back, and there follows another crash and further yells of laughter.
In muffled agony from the hedge: "Now what has happened?"