Their indignation, when the proceedings began to grow slow, was directed entirely at the dilatory Three Pointers. With an aggrieved air, akin to that of a crowd at a cricket match when batsmen are playing for a draw, they began to "barrack." They hooted the Three Pointers. They begged them to go home and tuck themselves up in bed. The men on the roof were mostly Irishmen, and it offended them to see what should have been a spirited fight so grossly bungled.
"G'wan away home, ye quitters!" roared one.
"Call yersilves the Three Points, do ye? An' would ye know what I call ye? The Young Ladies' Seminary!" bellowed another with withering scorn.
A third member of the audience alluded to them as "stiffs."
"I fear, Comrade Windsor," said Psmith, "that our blithe friends below are beginning to grow a little unpopular with the many-headed. They must be up and doing if they wish to retain the esteem of Pleasant Street. Aha!"
Another and a longer explosion from below, and more bullets wasted themselves on air. Psmith sighed.
"They make me tired," he said. "This is no time for a feu de joie. Action! That is the cry. Action! Get busy, you blighters!"
The Irish neighbours expressed the same sentiment in different and more forcible words. There was no doubt about it—as warriors, the Three Pointers had failed to give satisfaction.
A voice from the room called up to Psmith.
"Say!"