Thus pressed, the ogre household retired into semi-privacy, and immediately afterwards the air was rent with the sound of loud snoring.
“They’re only pretending to sleep,” Marygold explained to Gaston, dragging him behind some hazel bushes, whence he could see the sham sleepers. “They think that we haven’t heard them making their wicked plans, you know. But, oh! look at Phil.”
Armed with a long thistle, Phil was advancing stealthily upon the ogre, who was leaning against the trunk of a tree, snoring lustily, with fast-closed eyes. In another minute Phil would have tickled the ogre’s nose with the spikey weapon he carried.
But Gaston, untrained in the tactics of ogre warfare, instead of observing the breathless silence maintained by the others, gave vent to a loud giggle. This instantly roused the ogre to a knowledge of his danger, and caused Phil to be ignominiously routed.
In the general confusion which ensued Marygold was captured and bound to a tree, with the delightful prospect of being turned into a white soup before sunset.
“You little duffer,” cried Phil, savagely, turning upon the trembling Gaston, “you spoilt all the sport with that idiotic giggle of yours. Now you shall be punished for that by being delivered up to the ogre in exchange for Faith.”
“Yes, master Froggy,” put in Jack, seeing that Gaston really looked alarmed, “you’ll have to pay for that giggle with your blood, so come on.”
Planting his heels firmly together, Gaston resisted resolutely.
It might be all play, still, the big English boy’s voice sounded very angry, and his face looked very fierce.
“Come on,” said Phil, giving Gaston a desperate tug.