"Class-conscious we are" or "Proley
Tarians, arise!" mingled with the din, like the cry of seagulls in a
storm. He saw a bright light flare up within the House which warned
him not to enter, but he got as far as the garden-room, in whose dark
corners he made havoc. Indeed he was almost too successful, for he
created panic where he went, and one or two fired blindly at the
quarter where he had last been heard. These shots were followed by
frenzied prohibitions from Spidel and were not repeated. Presently he
felt that aimless surge of men that is the prelude to flight, and heard
Dobson's great voice roaring in the hall. Convinced that the crisis had
come, he made his way outside, prepared to harrass the rear of any
retirement. Tears now flowed down his face, and he could not have
spoken for sobs, but he had never been so happy.

But chiefly would I celebrate Thomas Yownie, for it was he who brought
fear into the heart of Dobson. He had a voice of singular compass, and
from the verandah he made it echo round the House. The efforts of Old
Bill and Peter Paterson had been skilful indeed, but those of Thomas
Yownie were deadly. To some leader beyond he shouted news: "Robison's
just about finished wi' his lot, and then he'll get the boats." A
furious charge upset him, and for a moment he thought he had been
discovered. But it was only Dobson rushing to Leon, who was leading
the men in the doorway. Thomas fled to the far end of the verandah,
and again lifted up his voice. "All foreigners," he shouted, "except
the man Dobson. Ay. Ay. Ye've got Loudon? Well done!"

It must have been this last performance which broke Dobson's nerve and
convinced him that the one hope lay in a rapid retreat to the
Garplefoot. There was a tumbling of men in the doorway, a muttering of
strange tongues, and the vision of the innkeeper shouting to Leon and
Spidel. For a second he was seen in the faint reflection that the
light in the hall cast as far as the verandah, a wild figure urging the
retreat with a pistol clapped to the head of those who were too
confused by the hurricane of events to grasp the situation. Some of
them dropped over the wall, but most huddled like sheep through the
door on the west side, a jumble of struggling, blasphemous mortality.
Thomas Yownie, staggered at the success of his tactics, yet kept his
head and did his utmost to confuse the retreat, and the triumphant
shouts and whistles of the other Die-Hards show