The sound was far off, weak and fraught with mortal distress.
"Has it hit you, too?"
Dink's answer was a groan. He opened one eye; McCarty, prone at his side, lay on his stomach, burying his head in his arms.
At this moment a light patter sounded about them.
"It's beginning to rain."
"I don't care!"
"Neither do I."
Stover lay clutching the earth, that somehow wouldn't kept still, that moved under him, that swayed and rose and fell. Then things began to rush through his brain: armies of football-clad warriors, The Roman whirling by on one leg of his chair, Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan prancing impishly, sticking out his tongue at him, whole flocks of Sunday preachers gesticulating in his direction, crowds of faces, legs, arms, an old, yellow dog with a sausage in his mouth——
Suddenly near him McCarty began to move.
"Where are you going?" he managed to say. "For Heaven's sake, don't leave me."