cure fingers, and lug himself to a momentary balance on the wall.
Romance and his goddess had vanished.
A red-haired girl with a pigtail was wringing the wrist of a schoolfellow who shrieked with pain and cried: “Mercy! mercy! Ooo! Christabel!”
“You idiot!” cried Christabel. “You giggling Idiot!”
Two other young ladies made off through the beech trees from this outburst of savagery.
Then the grip of Mr. Polly’s fingers gave, and he hit his chin against the stones and slipped clumsily to the ground again, scraping his cheek against the wall and hurting his shin against the log by which he had reached the top. Just for a moment he crouched against the wall.
He swore, staggered to the pile of logs and sat down.
He remained very still for some time, with his lips pressed together.
“Fool,” he said at last; “you Blithering Fool!” and began to rub his shin as though he had just discovered its bruises.
Afterwards he found his face was wet with blood—which was none the less red stuff from the heart because it came from slight abrasions.
