Under the fore-wheel the Gentleman was lying on his back, with closed eyes.
The boy stopped.
"Are you hurt, sir?"
The other shook a smiling head.
"Only shocked. Jerked off my box. Run, Little Chap, run!—or they'll bottle you."
"Kit, damn you!" stormed the Parson. "Will you run?"
Across the greensward half a dozen Grenadiers were hurling. The nearest dropped on his knee, and took deliberate aim at the boy.
The loop-hole clouded suddenly.
Out of it Death spoke.
The Grenadier toppled over on to his back with flapping hands. A moment he sat bolt-erect, a foolish-familiar look on his face—Kit somehow expected him to put his tongue out—then collapsed ghastly.