"'Pull em off,' says one, black and bitter. 'Don't spoil your own sport.'
"'The sogers are comin,' says another.
"'It's only the foot,' says the first. 'We've ten minutes afore we need slip it. Roll him on his back,' says he."
The Parson turned to Kit listening with dreadful-eyed fascination.
"Kit, go and tell Blob to come here."
The boy went giddily.
"'Then Fat George chime in,
"'Let him be, boys,' says he, in a fainty kind of a voice. 'He only done what he ought.' And he goes off in a sort of a croak,
"'It ain't been all my fault, my God,' says he. 'You made me that way, only You knows why.'
"And Red Beard chime in usky from underneath somewhere,