Then suddenly the gray eyes lighted, became both shrewd and distant; a malicious little smile stole about the corners of his mouth.
"Have-got! The credit's yours, Nesbit.

Accident: can do.

And this one--by Jove, it won't leave either of 'em a leg to stand on!--Here, mafoo, makee finish!" He sprang up, clapped a helmet on the shorn head, and stalked out into the sunlight.
"Come on," he called.

"It's nearly time.

We must pick up our young Hotspur." The clerk followed, through the glowing compound and the road.