"Is it, though!" cried Carpenter.
"Well, I'm blowed," muttered Jan.
An arresting figure had emerged from one of the rides for which Yardley Wood was celebrated. At least Jan pointed out a white mark in the dense woodland wall, and Chips could believe it was a gate, as he screwed up his eyes to sharpen their vision of the man advancing into the lower meadow. All he could make out was a purple face, a staggering gait, and a pair of wildly waving arms.
"What's up, do you suppose?" asked Chips, excitedly.
"I'm just waiting to see."
The unsteady figure was signalling and gesticulating with increasing vivacity. The dark edge of the wood threw out the faded brown of his corduroys, the incredible plum-colour of his complexion. Signals were never flown against better background.
"Something must have happened!" exclaimed Chips. "Hadn't we better go and see what it is?"
"Not quite. Don't you see who it is?"
Chips screwed his eyes into slits behind his glasses.
"Is it old Mulberry?"
"Did you ever see another face that colour?"
"You're right. But what does he want with us? Look at him beckoning! Can you hear what he's shouting out?"
A hoarse voice had reached them, roaring.
"No, and I don't want to; he's as drunk as a fool, as usual."
"I'm not so sure, Jan. I believe something's up."
"Well, we'll soon see. I'm not sure but what you're right after all."
Mulberry was nearing the nearer meadow, still waving and ranting as he came. Chips said he knew he was right, and it was a shame not to meet the fellow
