Granton did not see him, his attention being taken up by the insane action of his friend, whom he once more caught by the arm.
“What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “Are you going daft?”
“Eh? What?” cried Sir Hilton, looking at him angrily. “Nonsense! Can’t you see the little beasts?”
“D.T., by jingo!” muttered the doctor. “Why, he must have been on the drink for a week! I must get him there somehow. Here, Hilt, old man, its saddling up and weighing time. Come on. La Sylphide looks lovely, and Lady T. all anxiety about you. Rouse up, old chap.”
“All right. Wait till I’ve killed a few of these little beasts.”
To the horror and astonishment of his friend, Sir Hilton made another dash and rush, darting here and there all over the hall, cutting and swishing about with his heavy riding-whip as if it were a sabre, and he a mounted cavalry man, putting the well-learnt pursuing practice well into effect upon the enemy he seemed to see.
“What the deuce shall I do?” muttered the doctor, breathlessly, after playing the enemy in his efforts to escape a slash.
“That cham, Jack,” cried Sir Hilton, catching his friend by the arm. “Sham, and no mistake. Not fizz at all, but that old brewing of honey—mead—metheglin—old Saxon swizzle. There they go again—the bees—swarming—all round and round my head. Yah! Look out—you’ll be stung.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Granton, humouring him. “Be cool. Stand still a moment, and let them go.”
“Thousands upon thousands of them,” cried Sir Hilton. “B-r-r-r-r-r! Look how they dart about in diamonds, zig-zags, rhomboids—buzz-z!”