Jim suddenly doubled himself up and burst into a loud harsh cackle of laughter. Whoop! he went, and doubled himself up with laughter. Whoop! Whoop! he went, and fell on the ground and writhed with laughter. He was in that state of intoxication when he could find no release from maddening self-consciousness. He knew what he was doing, he did it deliberately. And yet he was also beside himself, in a sort of hysterics. He could not help himself in exasperated self-consciousness.
The others all began to laugh, unavoidably. It was a contagion. They laughed helplessly and foolishly. Only Robert was anxious.
“I'm afraid he'll wake the house,” he said, looking at the doubled up figure of Jim writhing on the grass and whooping loudly.
“Or not enough,” put in Cyril Scott. He twigged Jim's condition.
“No—no!” cried Josephine, weak with laughing in spite of herself. “No—it's too long—I'm like to die laughing—”
Jim embraced the earth in his convulsions. Even Robert shook quite weakly with laughter. His face was red, his eyes full of dancing water. Yet he managed to articulate.
“I say, you know, you'll bring the old man down.” Then he went off again into spasms.
“Hu! Hu!” whooped Jim, subsiding. “Hu!”
He rolled over on to his back, and lay silent. The others also became weakly silent.
“What's amiss?” said Aaron Sisson, breaking this spell.