“D’yar dey come! D’yar dey come!” they shouted in chorus; and, with quasi-plantigrade flap of simultaneous feet, they bounded to the rear.
As when Zeus, angry because of the forgotten hecatomb, sends forth, in black, jagged cloud, the glomerated hail, and lays low the labors of the oxen and the hopes of the husbandman.
Or, just as a herd of buffaloes, sniffing the band of Redmen from afar, scurry over the plain.
As though a pack of village curs have inaugurated a conflict, at dead of night, in peaceful, moonlit lane. The combat deepens and stayeth not. But the Summer Boarder, wild with the irony of advertisements, discharges in their midst the casual blunderbuss,—rusty, ineffectual. Instantly hushed is the voice of battle; but multitudinous is the rush of departing paws.
Not otherwise scampered over the Elmington lawn, with nimbly flapping feet, the children of the blameless Ethiopians, as Homer calls them.
The swiftest (for the race is not always to the slow) was first to reach the front steps.
“Dey comin’, Uncle Dick! D’yar dey is in de fur eend o’ de lane!” For that worthy, hearing their hurrying steps, had made his way to the porch, followed by Zip. Zip started back through the door on hearing the tidings.
“Whar you gwine, boy?”
Zip stood as though frozen.
“Ain’t you never gwine to learn no sense? Don’t you know I is de properest pusson to renounce de rerival o’ de company?”