"You Hun! You Hindenburg!" foamed Dearest George, scraping off the mud. "You stand still, will you?"
The white horse retreated solemnly at a jog, now pursued by a lame and irate man.
"He'll go home in any case now to Mumsie," said Gheena composedly. "He's all muddy. It was the only thing I could think of. Now we'll have tea."
"Resourceful but heartless," said Stafford quietly. "Supposing he'd been hurt?"
"He folds up so gently, that horse," replied Gheena equably.
The getting into Girtnamurragh by opening a window—there were heaps of panes broken—proved quite simple. The long dark room gushed damp at them, so that they moved hurriedly to the kitchen, where turf and wood soon blazed hotly and the usual difficulties of pioneering commenced.
The pump would not pump for ages—they had forgotten to send for a teapot. But the afternoon was long, and they all laughed over rebuffs, until mounds of buttered toast and well-smoked tea stood ready on the wooden table.
"I thought of smugglers," said the Professor mildly, peeping in, "so I came up."
"You were out along the cliffs, Professor," said Stafford a little sharply.
"Upon the rocks. I saw you upon the cliffs," said the Professor affably. "Now that one may see a periscope on the sea, it is interesting."