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They threw hard-earned handfuls of road-grit upon the flames, which accepted them with enthusiasm. Grubb arrived, riding hard. He was shouting something. He sprang off and threw his bicycle into the hedge. "Don't throw water on it!" he said "don't throw water on it!" He displayed commanding presence of mind. He became captain of the occasion.
The short, fat cyclist stared blankly for a moment, then with a helpful cry began to scrabble in the road-grit. Whereupon Bert and Edna also scrabbled in the road-grit. Other cyclists arrived, dismounted and stood about, and their flame-lit faces expressed satisfaction, interest, curiosity. "Wet sand," said the short, fat man, scrabbling terribly "wet sand." One joined him.
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