“I’m nearly out of wind,” I ventured.
“Ditto,” he replied.
That was not very encouraging.
“What can be done?” I demanded, boldly.
“I know only one thing.”
“Then, let’s do it,” I shouted, as I made a wicked dash at a fellow who showed his head above the line of our parapet barricade, and, having caused him to temporarily suspend his intentions, I rushed back to Robbins.
Even his last idea, dernier ressort though it might be, offered a gleam of hope.
“I hate to—it ain’t time by an hour—perhaps the whole thing might be ruined,” he said.
“Hang it! let her ruin—we’re gone if something doesn’t happen pretty quick,” I cried, desperately.
I might have continued in a similar vein, even growing satirical and bringing in the early bird and worm fable to prove that it was no crime to be an hour ahead of time—where would we be sixty minutes later if this sort of thing kept up—but, really, I lacked both the time and breath to say it.