“I’m just waiting to see.”
The unsteady figure was signalling and gesticulating with increasing vivacity. The dark edge of the wood threw out the faded brown of his corduroys, the incredible plum-colour of his complexion. Signals were never flown against better background.
“Something must have happened!” exclaimed Chips. “Hadn’t we better go and see what it is?”
“Not quite. Don’t you see who it is?”
Chips screwed his eyes into slits behind his glasses.
“Is it old Mulberry?”
“Did you ever see another face that colour?”
“You’re right. But what does he want with us? Look at him beckoning! Can you hear what he’s shouting out?”
A hoarse voice had reached them, roaring.
“No, and I don’t want to; he’s as drunk as a fool, as usual.”