He nodded. A long silence fell between us, and I began to whistle. Suddenly he looked up shyly, but his eyes were quick with curiosity.
“I say,” he said, “what’s a parryshoot?”
The problem had evidently haunted him ever since I had told him that my uncle had fallen from one.
“Well, what do you think?” says I.
“I dunno,” he answered carelessly. “Thought, maybe, ’twas one o’ them things that shoots the malt refuge out of brewhouses.”
I sniggered with laughter. Fancy Uncle Jenico having been shot out of a brewery!
“It’s an umbrella,” I said; “a thing that you jump into the air with off a cliff, and come down without hurting yourself.”
“Mighty!” he cried, all excitement. “Is it reelly? Let’s make one—and try it first on that Derrick,” he added, with commendable foresight.
My heart crowed at the idea. We discussed it for many minutes. In the midst we heard a sound of distant jeering, and cautiously raised our heads above the snow rampart. The whole body of our enemies was in full retreat, and already nearing the top of the Gap. We were left alone, sole inseparable masters of the field. It was the happiest omen of what was to be.