“Aw, hey…” That sneak. He climbed down the tree, not up! He’s down there now, watching! They knew Slothrop would choose up, not down—they were counting on that damned American reflex all right, bad guy in a chase always heads up—why up? and they sawed the trunk nearly through, a-and now—

They? They?

“Well,” opines Slothrop, “I had better, uh…” About then the point of the tree cracks through, and with a great rustle and whoosh, a whirl of dark branches and needles breaking him up into a few thousand sharp falling pieces, down topples Slothrop, bouncing from limb to limb, trying to hold the purple sheet over his head for a parachute. Oof. Nnhh. About halfway to the ground, terrace-level or so, he happens to look down, and there observes many senior officers in uniform and plump ladies in white batiste frocks and flowered hats. They are playing croquet. It appears Slothrop will land somewhere in their midst. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine a tropical island, a secure room, where this cannot be happening. He opens them about the time he hits the ground. In the silence, before he can even register pain, comes the loud thock of wood hitting wood. A bright-yellow striped ball comes rolling past an inch from Slothrop’s nose and on out of sight, followed a second later by a burst of congratulations, ladies enthusiastic, footfalls heading his way. Seems he’s, unnhh, wrenched his back a little, but doesn’t much feel like moving anyhow. Presently the sky is obscured by faces of some General and Teddy Bloat, gazing curiously down.

“It’s Slothrop,” sez Bloat, “and he’s wearing a purple sheet.”

“What’s this my lad,” inquires the General, “costume theatricals, eh?” He is joined by a pair of ladies beaming at, or perhaps through, Slothrop.

“Whom are you talking to, General?”

“That blighter in the toga,” replies the General, “who is lying between me and my next wicket.”

“Why how extraordinary, Rowena,” turning to her companion, “do you see a ‘blighter in a toga’?”

“Goodness no, Jewel,” replies blithe Rowena. “I believe the General has been drinking.” The ladies begin to giggle.

“If the General made all his decisions in this state,” Jewel gasping for breath, “why there’d, there’d be sauerkraut in the Strand!” The two of them shriek, very loudly, for an unpleasant length of time.

“And your name would be Brunhilde,” the two faces now a strangled rose, “instead of—of Jewel!” They are clutching each other for dear life. Slothrop glares up at this spectacle, augmented now by a cast of dozens.

“We-e-e-ell, you see, somebody swiped all my clothes, and I was just on my way to complain to the management—”

“But decided to put on a purple bedsheet and climb a tree instead,” nods the General. “Well—I dare say we can fix you up with something. Bloat, you’re nearly this man’s size, aren’t you?”

“Oh,” croquet mallet over his shoulder, posed like an advertising display for Kilgour or Curtis, smirking down at Slothrop, “I’ve a spare uniform somewhere. Come along, Slothrop, you’re all right, aren’t you. Didn’t break anything.”