le seat,
wears what was once a fashionable white English yachting suit. He is
evidently a pleasantly worthless young English gentleman gone to the
bad, but retaining sufficient self-respect to shave carefully and
brush his hair, which is wearing thin, and does not seem to have been
luxuriant even in its best days.

The silence is broken only by the snores of the young gentleman, whose
mouth has fallen open, until a few distant shots half waken him. He
shuts his mouth convulsively, and opens his eyes sleepily. A door is
violently kicked outside; and the voice of Drinkwater is heard raising
urgent alarm.

DRINKWATER. Wot ow! Wike ap there, will yr. Wike ap. (He rushes in
through the horseshoe arch, hot and excited, and runs round, kicking the
sleepers) Nah then. Git ap. Git ap, will yr, Kiddy Redbrook. (He gives
the young qentleman a rude shove.)

REDBOOK (sitting up). Stow that, will you. What's amiss?

DRINKWATER (disgusted). Wot's amiss! Didn't eah naow fawrin, I spowse.

REDBROOK. No.

DRINKWATER (sneering). Naow. Thort it sifer nort, didn't yr?

REDBROOK (with crisp intelligence). What! You're running away, are
you? (He springs up, crying) Look alive, Johnnies: there's danger.
Brandyfaced Jack's on the run. (They spring up hastily, grasping their
guns.)

DRINKWATER. Dineger! Yuss: should think there wors dineger. It's howver,
thow, as it mowstly his baw the tawm YOU'RE awike. (They relapse
into lassitude.) Waw wasn't you on the look-aht to give us a end? Bin
hattecked baw the Benny Seeras (Beni Siras), we ev, an ed to rawd for it
pretty strite, too, aw teoll yr. Mawtzow is it: the bullet glawnst all
rahnd is bloomin brisket. Brarsbahnd e dropt the Shike's oss at six
unnern fifty yawds. (Bustling them about) Nah then: git the plice ready
for the British herristoracy, Lawd Ellam and Lidy Wineflete.

REDBOOK. Lady faint, eh?

DRINKWATER. Fynt! Not lawkly. Wornted to gow an talk, to the Benny
Seeras: blaow me if she didn't! huz wot we was frahtnd of. Tyin up
Mawtzow's wound, she is, like a bloomin orspittle nass. (Sir Howard,
with a copious pagri on his white hat, enters through the horseshoe
arch, followed by a couple of men supporting the wounded Marzo, who,
weeping and terrorstricken by the prospect of death and of subsequent
torments for which he is conscious of having eminently qualified
himself, has his coat off and a bandage round his chest. One of his
supporters is a blackbearded, thickset, slow, mid