Let's walk."
He pushed back the catch of the lock. The door burst open, hurling
him back against the wall, as his man came flying through, fairly
projected into our arms by the pressure of wind in the porch.
"Make up the fire, put out the whisky, and go to bed," Foe bawled at
him. "Eh? . . . Yes, that's all right; I have my latch-key."
I couldn't have expostulated if I'd wanted to. The wind filled my
mouth. We butted out after him into the gale, Jimmy turning in the
doorway to let out a skirling war-whoop--"just to brace up the
flat-dwellers," he explained afterwards. "I wanted to tell 'em that
St. George was for Merry England, but there wasn't time."
We didn't say much on the way. The wind took care of that. On the
bridge we had to claw the parapet to pull ourselves along; and just
as we won to the portico of the Baths there came a squall that
knocked us all sideways. Foe and Jimmy cast their arms about one
pillar, I clung to another; and the policeman, who at that moment
shot his lantern upon us from his shelter in the doorway, pardonably
mistook our condition.
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