His eyes were fixed upon a gleam of bloated yellow dimly seen, under the lee of a rock, not very many yards away–the venomous, pale yellow of the dropsical cave fungi.
“Why–why! it’s only one of those horrid, blowzy, mushroom things. But what’s the noise–like–like somebody rattling little marbles, dry peas?”
The girl felt her own breath go ratatat as she put the question.
“Oh-h! only some fellow rattling–rattling–beans in his pocket. Let’s get away–quick!”
And then Pemrose knew what it was to look upon a Stoutheart “rattled.”
But, with that, a voice, a cry, not loud, but strong, exploded like a spring gun in the cave,–suddenly halting advance.
“What’s that outside? What’s that outside?” it whooped. “Is it an aëroplane? Two aëroplanes? Oh! hurry out–and see.”
“A dozen aëroplanes! A corps of aëroplanes!” boomed back those flaunting big boys, of whom the nickum was leader, playing up to the cue of the Scoutmaster who had started the concentrated cry. “Oh, hurry–hurry!”
She saw him fling his mayflowers on the ground, that strange youth, and snatch at Una’s hand, to drag her along towards the low cave entrance. He made a wide, circling movement to catch at hers, too. But she dodged it. Never more should he play Jack at a Pinch to her! Never!
Through old Tory Cave there surged the noise of a rising wind, silencing that weak gust afar off, now baleful, the sound of the hidden water; reverberating among the rocks, it might be taken for anything, for the hum of aircraft–for a perfect onslaught of sky cavalry!