Stifled by the bony shoulder that pressed against his face, Mr.
Marrapit went black. He jerked his head free, put up his face, and
giving cry for cry, shrilled, "George! George! George!"
The din reached George where from his window he leaned, crying on
Abiram in the man-hunt across the garden. He drew in his head, bounded
down the stairs. Over Mrs. Major's back, bent inwards from the toes to
the rock about which she clung, Mr. Marrapit's empurpled face stared
at him.
Upon George's countenance the sight struck a great grin; his legs it
struck to dead halt.
Mrs. Major's shrieks died to moans.
"Action!" Mr. Marrapit gasped. "Remove this creature!"
George put a hand upon her back. It shot a fresh shriek from her; she
clung closer.
"Pantaloon!" Mr. Marrapit strained. "Crush that grin! Action! Remove
this woman! She throttles me! The pressure is insupportable. I am
Sinbad."
George again laid hands. Again Mrs. Major shrieked; tighter clung.
Mr. Marrapit, blacker, cried, "Zany!"
"Well, what the devil can I do?" George asked, hopping about the pair;
Mrs. Major's back as responsive to his touch as the keys of a piano to
idle fingers.
"You run to and fro and grin like a dog," Mr. Marrapit told him. "Each
time you touch her she screams, grips me closer. I shall be throttled.
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