“He’s down!”
“Quick!”
“You’ve got it!”
“Take that!” Slash! But the slain arose again and renewed the fight.
Shrewd Mark Antony having knocked his man over, paused on the higher part of the slope where he chanced to be, and looked down on the battle. He noted Phil Varro go up to Pompey and urge something. Pompey seemed to yield, and shouted, “A tail! a tail! Crassus! George! Tim! A tail!”
Mark dashed down the slope to Bevis, who was fighting on the level ground. He hastened to save the battle, for a “tail” is a terrible thing. The leader, who must be the biggest, gets in front, the next biggest behind him, a third behind him, and so on to the last, forming a tail, which is in fact a column, and so long as it keeps formation will bore a hole through a crowd. Before he could get to Caesar, for so many struck at him in passing that it took him some time to pass fifty yards, the tail was made—Pompey in front, next Val Crassus, then Varro, then Ike (a big fellow, but who had as yet done nothing, and was no good except for the weight of his body), then George, then Tim, and two more. Eight of them in a mighty line, which began to descend the slope.
“Look!” said Mark Antony at last, touching Caesar Bevis, “look there! It’s a tail!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Bevis, looking up.
“Doesn’t matter! Why, they’ll hunt us!”
And Pompey did hunt them, downright hunt them along. Before Fred and Bill could come at Mark’s call, before they could shake themselves free of their immediate opponents, Pompey came thundering down, and swept everything before him.