There are some moments in a man's life when all language fails;—pantomime moments, when one stares and tries to speak and stares again. They were both at it—St. George waiting until Harry should explode, and Harry trying to get his breath, the earth opening under him, the skies falling all about his head.
“She told you so! When!” he gasped.
“Two minutes ago—you've just missed her! Where the devil have you been? Why didn't you come in before?”
“Kate here—two minutes ago—what will I do?” Had he found himself at sea in an open boat with both oars adrift he could not have been more helpless.
“DO! Catch her before she gets home! Quick!—just as you are—sailor clothes and all!”
“But how will I know if—?”
“You don't have to know! Away with you, I tell you!”
And away he went—and if you will believe it, dear reader—without even a whisper in his uncle's ears of the good news he had come to tell.