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.