“What for?” said the Minor, who had noticed nothing.
“’Cause we’re wanted. Leg it!”
“Oh, I can do that,” the Minor replied and, at the end of the sprint, fetched up a couple of yards ahead of his brother, and much less winded.
“’Your Minor?” said Pot looking over them, seawards.
“Yes, Mullins,” the Major replied.
“All right. Cut along!” They cut on the word.
“Hi! Fludd Major! Come back!”
Back fled the elder.
“Your wind’s bad. Too fat. You grunt like a pig. Mustn’t do it! Understand? Go away!”
“What was all that for?” the Minor asked on the Major’s return.