The Parson was wiping the point of his sword on a man.
"Dirty skunks!" he panted. "Had their bellyful before I'd begun."
Blob was laughing to himself.
"Oi loike killin," he gurgled. "It goos in so plop-loike."
A figure, tall and black as a winter tree, shot up against the light on the shingle-bank, and hung a second there.
The Parson waved.
"Too late, Monsieur le Poseur," he called mockingly. "Better luck next time."
The little party trotted across to the cottage, and entered.
Piper, awaiting them, slammed the door, and made all fast.
"Near thing, sir," chuckled the old man.