"Give 'em a little gas, for the love of glory!" shouted Croft.
In this way we quietened them down, until Gran'pa arrived from the aerodrome, followed by a single file of stretcher bearers.
"This is very gratifying, George," he said. "When I counted those flags I could hardly believe my eyes. You get extraordinary luck. Everything you touch seems to turn to—gorilla!"
The gas having been cut off, the chorus of hate broke loose again.
"We can't have this din," shouted Gran'pa.
"I don't see how you'll get your gorilla without it," I cried. "It's those wretched females that keep the old man going. I believe he'd have enough sense to remain quiet if he were by himself."
Gran'pa watched them for awhile.
"Yes," he said at last. "You can see that they're deliberately inciting him to shout us down—evidently under the impression that if only they scream hard enough we shall funk it and run. Just like some of our own women, George. . . ."
I was not in the mood for cheap cynicism. All I wanted was peace, comfort, and Corisco.
"We've very little time to waste," I yelled. "What are you going to do?"