because they can get behind little rocks and into tiny holes. "But they have no actually destructive weapon, so it should be quite simple to merely—ah—swat them," he finished. "That is why we civilians have been asked to volunteer."
"Wot abart the ruddy militia?" asked Hemingway, the tobacconist. "W'y carn't they swot 'em?"
"Well, as I understand it," said the professor, "the militia have so much metal about them, you know—buttons and belt-buckles, and so forth—that it's simpler just to turn the thing over to the—ah—civilians than to remove it all. There's really no danger at all, of course."
"Ah," said Hemingway, doubtfully.
"Here they come!" came the word along the line.
The Little Men marched into view, scattered out now, and with ray-tubes at the ready.
"Up and at 'em!"
Armed with baseball bats, pokers, and clubs, the civilian volunteers rushed the Little Men.
"There, you rascal!" panted Professor Ferrin, as he smote the foremost with his club.
Then he halted and stared. Where a bloody pulp, or at least a lifeless body, ought to have been, was an unharmed Little Man, calmly marching onward.
Taking a firmer grip, the professor followed him and smote him again. This time he distinctly saw the Little Man telescope under the blow and then pop up again.
"Amazing!" he breathed, a scientific gleam in his eye.
This time he hit the Little Man horizontally. Again he conducted himself like a rubber ball; bending with the blow, then snapping back out again. He picked himself up, apparently unhurt, and went ahead without a backward glance.
"Amazing!" the professor said again.
The Little Men marched on.
Coming of the
White Worm
by Clark Ashton Smith
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