“The bees; they’re coming back—swarming. Buzz—buzz—buzz! Listen! There they go!”
“Gammon, uncle. It’s the crowd on the course—swarming in thousands.”
“Yes, that’s it, Syd. Take care, you’ll get stung, my boy! Ugh! You beast! Would you!” and whish, whish, whish went the whip, as an imaginary insect was beaten down to the floor and followed and stamped on by its slayer. “That has settled you.”
“Why, doctor,” cried Syd, who had been staring at his uncle, open-mouthed, “don’t say he’s coxybobus!”
“I wasn’t going to, my boy, but he’s horribly screwed.”
“Screwed? He can’t ride. It must be D.T. Here, uncle,” cried the boy, seizing him and shaking him violently, “pull yourself together. You’ve got to ride.”
“Yes, all right, my boy; and your aunt must never know. There, don’t tear my shirt. Hear them—the bees again? Do you recollect, my little man, ‘How doth the little busy bee,’ eh?”
At that moment Molly, wondering at the buzz of conversation within, forgot her young husband’s orders to wait, and came into the hall, to stare wonderingly.
“Oh, Syd, what is the matter with your uncle?”
“Don’t bother. Got ’em. What’s to be done, doctor? Here, I know,” he said, staring the while at Sir Hilton, who had seized a chair, turned it, and sat down crosswise, to keep on lashing at imaginary bees. “Soda—”