Then a wild resolve to confirm his worst sense of what was on the
other side of the wall made him seize a log, put it against the
stones, clutch the parapet with insecure 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.