"'GOT A PUNCTURE, OLD MAN?'"
He, too, hopped on one foot, and crooked the other leg, his face contorted for a moment out of its wonted cherubic calm.
"Told you so," he cried, picking a blue tack from between his toes. "I'm a very sensitive plant, I can tell you. I see blood. Warrender, I'd have yours if you weren't such a thundering big lout."
"Not guilty," said Warrender, who had prudently stood still. "You had better both come and put your boots on. We haven't any tacks in our outfit, so--I say!"
"What do you say?" said Pratt.
"Last night I heard a sound like a sharp shower of rain or hail on the tent. Just wait till I pull my boots on."
In half a minute he was out again, shod, and began to examine the grass around the tent.
"As I thought," he said. "There's a regular battalion of the beastly things; another trick of that blackguard Rush, no doubt. He's trying frightfulness."
"I'll wring his neck if I catch him," cried Armstrong.
"No, you don't, my son," said Pratt. "The law would say 'neck for neck,' I'm afraid. I shouldn't object to your blacking his eyes. But when you come to think of it, perhaps Rush isn't the culprit after all. We've never seen him on this side of the channel. It may have been the other fellow."