She's up by this time; that don't sound like a drag now!" cries Tom, bursting desperately, with elbow-guarded visage, through the tangled scrub. "What's the matter, Trebooze? No, thanks! 'Modest quenchers' won't improve the wind just now." For Trebooze has halted, panting and bathed in perspiration; has been at the brandy flask again; and now offers Tom a "quencher," as he calls it.