"I left him in here somewhere," said the girl, as they set off
along a narrow path. "This was obviously the best place to hide,
as, except for Father's horse, the Home hasn't had an inmate for
two years. There was some talk of Father making this the
headquarters of the Great General Strafe in this campaign, but I
don't believe they have done so yet."

"Hush!" said Bleak. "What is that I hear?"

A dull, regular, recurrent sound, a sort of rasping sigh, stole
through the thickets. They both listened in some agitation.

"Sounds a little like an airplane, with one engine missing," said
Bleak.

"Can it be the sea, the surf breaking on the sand?" asked Miss
Chuff.

This seemed probable, and they accepted it as such; but as they
pushed on through the tangle of saplings and bushes the sound
seemed to localize itself on their left. Bleak peeped cautiously
through a leafy screen, and then beckoned the girl to his side.
They looked down into a warm sandy hollow, overgrown and sheltered
by a large rhododendron with knotted branches and dry, shiny
leaves. Curled up on the sand bank, in the unconsciously pathetic
posture of sheer exhaustion, lay Quimbleton, asleep. A droning
snore buzzed heavily from where he lay.

"Poor Virgil!" said Miss Chuff. "How tired he looks."