At this point Gheena grew hysterical. George Freyne's words became clear as he ordered Phil, as a something, something, something idiot, to get away the bees, to get help and take the dam brutes away.
The angry bees were racing up and down the avenue between the laurels and safety.
"I carried them around," said Phil soberly, out of the window, "thinkin' they'd destroy the robbers if they comes up, so I up and clapped the two carriage rugs around them, an' they neshtin' within, an' I wouldn't say we can ever get them back till it is dark entirely, sir, they bein' a trifle irritated in themselves an' all out."
The prospect of crouching in the laurels until after dark, or the alternative of squeezing through the barbed wire palings or of taking the open surrounded by a cloud of bees was now with the refugees.
The remarks which sped from the bitter smelling shade of the laurels were venomous as the disturbed honey-makers.
"Someone is talkin'," said the sober voice behind the Venetian blind. "Howld ye're whist, Mary Anne, till we listen. Would ye dhraw the Germins on us? Do not stir the blind on ye're life or they'll be in. The bees Mary Anne, not the——"
At this point Mrs. Freyne opened the hall door. It was dim behind her, and she was not perceived by the questing enemy.
"Matilda," wailed her husband, "get them away!"
"Oh, you, Dearest!" replied his wife placidly. "Dear me! I see the car nearly over the sunk fence, and I thought I heard George, but I cannot do anything until he comes—can I, Professor?—about the Germans."
A deeper note grunted from the hall. Mrs. Freyne chased a bee from her face.