“Do not touch it. It is full of magic. It is that has done the clipping.”
“Pooh!” said Wahr. “Pooh, sire!”
“Do you really think so?” whispered Ruhet, half believing Nicht. “Well, it will do no more. Over with it.”
Two men—then ten men—then twenty men—grasped it.
“It is not soup, at all events,” laughed Hier Ruhet.
“Aha, ha, ha!” echoed the odious Wahr—still looking wise. “Not soup!”
“Over with it! Quick!” cried the impudent Nicht, ignoring both his superior officers in his fear.
Each was about to administer a separate reprimand to the poor gunner’s mate.
But at that moment it exploded.