"'Ullo, Bill," cried a voice. "She says: Don't let the old bloke through."
They passed the word from one to the other. "Don't let the old bloke through." They closed the outer ranks, standing shoulder to shoulder. The Professor's umbrella waved wildly on the outskirts.
She moved along the breakwater. Yes, that was it. "Don't let the old bloke through." She had never used such a word in her life before, but it just met the needs of the case. "Don't let the old bloke through."
The boat drew nearer.
A bugle, away up on the cliff, sounded the call to arms.
"Little Boy Blue, come blow me your horn! The cow's in the meadow; the sheep, in the corn. Where is the boy who looks after the sheep? Ah, dear God! Where is the Boy? Where is the Boy? Where is the Boy?—He's under the sailcloth—fast asleep."
The boat drew nearer. She could hear the measured plash of the oars; the rhythmic rattle of the rowlocks. They advanced, to the beat of the words in her brain.
"There must—be pion—eers! Don't let the old bloke through. Oh, where is the boy who looks after the sheep? He's under the sail-cloth, fast asleep."
The boat drew level with the breakwater, grating against it.
"Under the sail-cloth, Boy dear; under the sail-cloth—fast asleep."