"Old gasbag, I—calls—him," grunted Bill.
Those were the last words either of them spoke that afternoon. Rolling over, almost simultaneously, on the bracken, they lay there in a stupor, breathing heavily, lost to all about them, deaf at last to the droning tones of the reciter.
"Hallo! They've dropped off," said the tourist. His voice held no hint of wounded pride—rather did it seem eloquent of satisfaction. He leaned over the sleepers and shook them violently in turn. Their heads waggled to and fro, but neither took any heed.
"Absolutely doped," the stranger muttered. "Given them an over-dose, perhaps, but that can't be helped. Now for the rest of the performance."
Moving now with remarkable speed for so elderly-looking a man, he drew from his knapsack a couple of flags, one red, one white, and ran with them to the very crest of the hill. Then he made some rapid signals, waited half-a-minute as though for an answer, and semaphored again. Apparently satisfied, he returned to the spot where the two plain-clothes policemen snored, and stood over them, watch in hand.
"The car will be up in two minutes," he said, softly. "Bravo, Cyrus the Poet! Thou hast done thy work well."
CHAPTER XXI
The Merry Men win Glory
Mice could have been little quieter than Robin Hood and his Merry Men during the whole of the passages between the two plain-clothes policemen and the talkative stranger.
Almost bursting with mirth at first, they followed Robin's example by stuffing their handkerchiefs into their mouths to stifle their laughter.