336 
THE STRAND MAGAZINE, 
That mass writhed on. 
Oh, boys ! Oh, please, boys ! ’■ came from 
Miss Effte. And then in a scream : “ Oh, 
oo — oo ! Look at his face /” 
From under an arm of the writhing mass 
a most dreadful face seemed to be slowly 
squeezed out. Through it came, convulsed in 
agony, ft was the face of Valentine Saxon 
England, pressing away in acutest torture 
from the dragging claw that was buried in his 
hair. 
“ His face ! ITis poor face ! ” the terrified 
cluster took up. And “ Beast, Hugh ! Beast, 
boast 1 ” that Frenchishly loose I)e Ponthiere 
shrilled. 
“I must stop them 1 T must!” Gertie 
Tollemache said. She took a step out from 
the trembling group, and laid a gentle hand 
on one of the tossing shoulders of the mass. 
£f Boys — ” she began. One of the creature’s 
great tossing arms came whirling out and set 
such a thump upon her chest as might have 
been heard at Merringlee. “ Umph ! n gasped 
Miss Tollemache, and went reeling back to the 
sympathetic hands that stretched to catch 
her. 
The mass writhed on. 
It split suddenly as by some mighty up- 
heaval, and the half of it that was Valentine 
Saxon England came whirling backwards 
into the screaming duster. The tender 
forms against which he crashed prevented 
him falling. Taking impetus from their 
support, with a most horrible howl he 
bounded forward and plumped a great 
whirling list wallop on Hugh Falkener’s nose. 
Ah, then those girls screamed ! “ Flat ! 
Flat ! He’s knocked his nose flat ! ” cried 
the De Ponthiere, and, as a very cataract of 
blood came swirling out of the flatness, in a 
semi-swoon of Freneliish vapours, collapsed 
upon the sand. 
The mass was locked again now — roaring 
horribly as to Hugh, whose flat nose gave 
new and dreadful pain and blood to the 
writhing monster. A new fury seemed to 
possess it. Where before it had kept almost 
stationary, now most alarmingly it surged 
this way and that, down the beach, up the 
beach— swiftly up the beach. 
Miss M illy was the first to sight the impend- 
ing calamity that lay in this direction. “ Oh, 
mind I Oh, mind ! ” she cried, and in dread- 
ful agitation hopped around the plunging 
mass, screaming : “ 'the tea-things ! Oh, 
mind the tea-things ! ” 
At the word even those devoted creatures 
who clustered about the swooning De Pon- 
thiere could not forbear to look up from her 
prostrate form to take up the cry. “ The 
tea-things ! The tea-things ! Oh, boys, do 
mind the tea-things ! ” 
It was the most impracticably womanish 
behest. That plunging mass would not have 
stayed if the very Pit itself had gaped where 
the fair cloth was spread. One swishing leg 
caught it first. Like a great thunder-bolt 
it plunged through the ordered array of pretty 
tea-cups. A jug of milk cataracted in a white 
billow that washed the eclairs adrift. Shreds 
of flying china, rolling lumps of sugar, scattered 
as far as where the swooning De Ponthiere lay. 
And now all the mass’s legs in wild confusion 
churned up the cakes, the creams, the jams, 
the fruits into a whirling mixture, that flew, 
that squashed, that pulped knee-high upon 
its twisting stockings. 
One foot, poised for a moment as the mass 
spun round in a yet wilder spasm, crashed 
firmly info the pink-sugared pinnacle that 
had “ Milly ” in silver icing on its crown. 
“ My cake ! Oh, my cake ! ” poor Milly 
cried, and “ Oh, your cake ! ” the duster 
echoed. 
The suspended cake waggled violently in 
mid-air. It flashed round in a violent half- 
circle that whirled a great chunk of it. high on 
Miss Milly’ s dress. Then it accomplished 
the collapse of the writhing mass. “ Dash 
my foot ! ” a thick, tear-sodden voice sobbed 
from the middle of the plunging forms. 
“ Dash my foot I ” and the cake yet more 
furiously waggled. Then a companion foot 
flung up towards the cake, the mass spun, 
staggered, crashed to the cloth, wallowed in 
a very morass of cream and jam and pastries, 
then split in halves. Master Valentine Saxon 
England raised himself to his knees, plumped 
two tremendous wallops on the face that lay 
plastered in squashy food, said “ There ! ” 
and “ There ! ” with each blow, then, leaving 
a moaning form encrusted with food behind 
him, trod squarely out across the doth 
towards the girls. 
They broke and fled before his fearful 
aspect, his heaving chest, his sobbing breaths. 
“ I’m going home ! ” he bawled at them, 
and twisted on his heel towards Merringlee. 
Those poor girls took courage then, and, 
able now to realize their share of the disaster, 
took fury. 
“ You’d better ! ” they screamed. “ You’d 
better ! You’ll get thrashed, 1 hope ! You 
wicked boy ! You ought to go to prison ! ” 
And the Do Ponthiere, raising herself on one 
slender arm, cried : “ Beast ! Beast ! ” after 
the retreating figure that went stumping 
doggedly over the sands. 
