“He—he won’t really eat me,” he faltered.
“Eat you! of course he will. Skin, bones, and grizzle,” said Phil, thoroughly enjoying Gaston’s dismay; “someone always has to be eaten up at the end of the game to make it real.”
“But—but the last time that you did play, who was eated up then?” enquired Gaston, with not unnatural curiosity still holding back.
“Oh, an awfully jolly little chap,” said Phil, cheerfully, “very like you. I don’t think he would have minded it much if they hadn’t eaten so much mustard with him.”
“They won’t have of mustard to eat with me,” cried Gaston, “for Mrs. Busson was this morning not able to find any.”
“Pepper’ll do as well, or better,” said Phil, coolly, “hurry up, we’re not going to wait any longer. Don’t you hear the ogre sharpening his front teeth on the backbone of the giant that he ate for breakfast this morning? Come on, I say.”
“But no, no, I won’t come, I won’t,” yelled Gaston, trying to throw himself on the ground. “I won’t be eated, I won’t be eated!”
Vainly he looked round for succour. His last friend, Marygold, was herself a captive, and of course, Jack, the caterer, was not on his side.
“Be good enough to come on, gentlemen,” said the ogre, “having begun proceedings, you’re bound to go on with them. Shall my official, Jack, come to your assistance?”
Thereupon Jack came forward, and now, to his exceeding terror, Gaston found himself lifted bodily between the two bigger boys and carried forcibly into the clutches of the ogre.