“Are they coming?” said Robbie Anderson, jumping on to the turf hedge to get a wider view.
“That they are.”
The little man had dropped down on to a stone, and was mopping his forehead. When he had recovered his breath, he said,—
“I say, Monsieur the Gladiator, why didn't you kill when you were about it? I say, why didn't you kill?” and Monsey held his thumbs down, as he looked in Ralph's face.
“Kill whom?” said Ralph. He could not help laughing at the schoolmaster's ludicrous figure and gesture.
“Why, that Garth—a bad garth—a kirk-garth—a kirk-warner's garth-a devil's garth—Joe Garth?”
“I can't see them,” said Robbie, and he jumped down again into the road.
“Oh, but you will, you will,” said Monsey; and stretching his arm out towards Ralph with a frantic gesture, he cried, “You fly, fly, fly, fly!”
“Allow me to point out to you,” observed Ralph, smiling, “that I do not at all fly, nor shall I know why I should not remain where I am until you tell me.”
“Then know that your life's not worth a pin's fee if you remain here to be taken. Oh, that Garth—that devil's garth—that—that—Joe Garth!”