He disappeared inside to emerge again in a moment with a badminton racket and a shuttlecock. "On the bulldog—one round rapid fire." He fired and with a loud snort the sleeper awoke.
"You are charged with conduct to the prejudice, etc.," said the marksman severely, "in that you did spread alarm and despondency amongst the troops by disguising yourself as a disease and making noises indicative of pain."
Derek Vane stretched himself and stood up. "We are feeling well, thank you—and require nourishment. Does tea await me, and if not—why not?" He took his mail and glanced through it. "How they love me, dear old boy! What it is to be young and good looking, and charm. . . ."
There was a loud shout and the deck chair became the centre of a struggling mob. Shortly afterwards a noise of ripping canvas announced that it had acted as deck chairs have acted before when five people sit on them at the same moment.
"Look out, you mugs, you've broken it." Vane's voice came dimly from the ground. "And my face is in an ants' nest."
"Are you good looking and charming?" demanded an inexorable voice.
"No. Get off, Beetle; you've got bones on you like the human skeleton at Barnum's."
"What are you like?" pursued the same inexorable voice.
"Horrible," spluttered Vane. "A walking nightmare; a loathly dream."
"It is well—you may arise."