every face save that of the iron-willed Bishop was turned upward.
But even in their curiosity the rigid discipline of the Pan-Antis
prevailed. Now they were singing, to the tune of "The Old Gray
Mare,"

Old John Barleycorn, he ain't what he used
to be
AIN'T WHAT HE USED TO BE--
AIN'T WHAT HE USED TO BE!
Old John Barleycorn, he ain't what he used
to be,
Many a year ago.

The great volume of gusty sound, hurled aloft by these thousands
of sky-pointing mouths, created an air-pocket in which the bombing
plane tilted dangerously. For a moment, Bleak, who was watching
the plane, thought it was going to careen into a tail-spin and
crash down fatally. Then he saw Quimbleton, still recognizable by
an adhering shred of whisker, lean over the side of the fuselage.

A small dark object dropped through the air, fell with a loud POP
on the street a few yards in front of the Bishop. A faint green
vapor arose, misting for a moment the proud figures of Chuff and
his horse. At the same instant the other two planes, throbbing
down the line of the parade, discharged a rain of similar
projectiles along the vacant strip of paving between the marching
chuffs and the police-lined curb. An eddying emerald fume filled
the street, drifting with the brisk air down through all the ranks
of the procession. There were shouts and screams; the clanging
bands squawked discordantly.