"Ha! ha! you do look funny!" he laughed madly. "You're like one of
Magic's puppies poking out to have a first peep at the world."
"Oi loike killin better'n bein kill'd," Blob announced solemnly, and crept out on hands and knees, a tip of pink tongue travelling about his lips. Then he turned to his dead.
Kit wound up again.
"Never mind about him," he said, staggering to his feet. "He'll keep.
This way. Bring his musket along. Quick!"
He picked up the musket of his own dead, and swayed blindly down towards the lugger.
Blob followed at first reluctantly. Then some memory amused him, and he began to brim slow mirth.
"Er says—'Dear! dear!' and Oi says—'Theer! theer!' and plops it in, and plops it in."
Still adrift on the sea of his emotions, Kit paid no heed.
He was swimming down the shingle-bank, aware of nothing but the tip of his nose and vague bad dreams at the back of his heart.
The lugger was lying on the steep of the shingle, poised as though for launching.