Then, loud above the scuffling and the angry cries of those upon the ground, there sounded a deep-pitched angry bay. It was the sound of Henry in distress.
“Oh! Oh! I can’t see! I can’t see a thing! Who shall I hit? Where are they? What shall I do? I can’t see.”
“Well, have a look at the ground then,” shouted an angry young man, and with a violent push from the rear sent him headlong on to his face, where he lay stiffly still and only bellowed the louder.
“Who shall I hit, Terence, who shall I hit?”
The end came as abruptly as the start. They were suddenly all upon their feet and staring at each other.
“What on earth are you playing at?” demanded somebody. “What’s it all about anyway?”
“It’s about them,” cried Coles, walking forward like a somnambulist. “They’re spies.”
He lifted a hand and pointed at them stiffly.
Rouse made a gesture of appeal.
“If you fellows aren’t as bad as he is, take him in. He doesn’t look at all nice.”