Meanwhile the urn had continued upward, paused, sighted its course, and started viciously in Marc's direction. George's plan was hideously plain; he meant to dispatch his earthly part to the hereafter by means of bombardment.
"Run, Marc!" Toffee screamed. "Run!"
Marc, however, now laden with food, silver and lead weights, was all but incapable of flight. He started forward, but only ploddingly. Loaded to the teeth with ballast, his progress was not only extremely noisome, but greatly retarded.
"I can't run!" he panted.
In the next moment the urn had arrived at a position almost directly above him. It shuttled nervously back and forth, evidently adjusting for a direct hit. Toffee dashed toward the table and the petrified Blemishes. She bent quickly over Cecil and snatched the revolver from his hand.
"Bombs away!" George's voice sang out jubilantly from the region of the urn. "Fire one!"
"Oh, Lord!" Marc moaned fervently. He struggled desperately to reach one of the tables so that he might take shelter under it.
And then, just as the urn plunged downward, three shots thundered deafeningly through the room. Marc was suddenly caught in a rain of sand and shattered pottery.
At the table, the Blemishes jumped to their feet and threw their hands above their heads.