This was a crisper voice than the first. A third, higher-pitched, and full of pleasant affectations, broke in.
“Oh, practical men, there is no ape here. Why do you waste one of God's own days on unprofitable discussion? Give me a match!”
“I've a good mind to make you demonstrate in your own person. Come on, Bubbles! We'll make Jimmy climb!”
There was a sound of scuffling, broken by squeaks from Jimmy of the high voice. I turned back and drew Penfentenyou into the side of the flanking hedge. I remembered to have read in a society paper that Lord Lundie's lesser name was “Bubbles.”
“What are they doing?” Penfentenyou said sharply. “Drunk?”
“Just playing! Superabundant vitality of the Race, you know. We'll watch 'em,” I answered. The noise ceased.
“My deliver,” Jimmy gasped. “The ram caught in the thicket, and—I'm the only one who can talk Neapolitan! Leggo my collar!” He cried aloud in a foreign tongue, and was answered from the gate.
“It's the Calvinistic organ-grinder,” I whispered. I had already found a practicable break at the bottom of the hedge. “They're going to try to make the monkey climb, I believe.”
“Here—let me look!” Penfentenyou flung himself down, and rooted till he too broke a peep-hole. We lay side by side commanding the entire garden at ten yards' range.
“You know 'em?” said Penfentenyou, as I made some noise or other.