“Have one of these. They're crisp and wet and hot, just as they should be.”

Indifferently, he accepted and bit the tempting globe. At once he had to spit the portion out. There again was that vile bitter flavor!

“Oh, but they're lovely!” Nancy protested.

“Not even 'rather strange' nowsimply lovely'? Nancy, don't you see, something uncanny and awful is taking place here. I'm sorry, but I can't see otherwise. You and your father should leave here at once.”

“Leave here, Greg? Just because you don't like the taste of these lovely radishes? How can we leave here? Where should we go? See this here house? My granddad died here, and his father before him. It's our place. We can't just up and off, not even after this bit of trouble. Try another radish.”

“For heaven's sake, Nancy, they taste as if the flavor was intended for creatures with a palate completely different from ours . . . Oh . . .” He stared at her. “And perhaps they are. Nancy, I tell you”

He broke off, sliding from the railing. Neckland had come up from one side, still plastered in mud from his work in the ditch, his collariess shirt flapping open. In his hand, he grasped an ancient and military-looking pistol.

“I'll fire this if you come nearer,” he said. “It goes okay, never worry, and it's loaded. Master Gregory. Now you're a– going to listen to me!”

“Bert, put that thing away!” Nancy exclaimed. She moved forward to him, but Gregory pulled her back and stood before her.

“Don't be a bloody idiot, Neckland. Put it away!”

“I'll shoot you, bor, I'll shoot you, I swear, if you mucks about.” His eyes were glaring, and the look on his dark face left no doubt that he meant what he said. “You're going to swear to me that you're going to clear off of this farm on that nag of yours and never come back again.”

“I'm going straight to tell my father, Bert,” Nancy warned.

The pistol twitched. “If you move, Nancy, I warn you I'll shoot this fine chap of yours in the leg. Besides, your father don't care about Master Gregory anymorehe's got better things to worry him.”

“Like finding out what's happening here?” Gregory said. “Listen, Neckland, we're all in trouble. This farm is being run by a group of nasty little monsters. You can't see them because they're invisible”

The gun exploded. As he spoke, Nancy had attempted to run off. Without hesitating, Neckland fired down at Gregory's knees. Gregory felt the shot pluck his trouser leg and knew himself unharmed. With knowledge came rage. He flung himself at Neckland and hit him hard over the heart. Falling back, Neckland dropped the pistol and swung his fist wildly. Gregory struck him again. As he did so, the other grabbed him and they began furiously hitting each other. When Gregory broke free, Neckland grappled with him again. There was more pummeling of ribs.

“Let me go, you swine!” Gregory shouted. He hooked his foot behind Neckland's ankle, and they both rolled over onto the grass. At this point, a sort of flood bank had been raised long ago between the house and low-lying orchard. Down this the two men rolled, fetching up sharply against the stone wall of the kitchen. Neckland got the worst of it, catching his head on the corner, and lay there stunned. Gregory found himself looking at two feet encased in ludicrous stockings. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and confronted Mrs. Grendon at less than a yard's distance. She was smiling.

He stood there, and gradually straightened his back, looking at her anxiously.

“So there you are, Jackie, my Jackalums,” she said. The smile was wider now and less like a smile. “I wanted to talk to you. You are the one who knows about the things that walk on the lines, aren't you?”

“I don't understand, Mrs. Grendon.”

“Don't call me that there daft old name, sonnie. You know all about the little gray things that aren't supposed to be there, don't you?”

“Oh, those . . . Suppose I said I did know?”

“The other naughty children will pretend they don't know what I mean, but you know, don't you? You know about the little gray things.”

The sweat stood out on his brow. She had moved nearer. She stood close, staring into his eyes, not touching him; but he was acutely conscious that she could touch him at any moment. From the corner of his eye, he saw Neckland stir and crawl away from the house, but there were other things to occupy him.

“These little gray things,” he said. “Did you save the nine babies from them?”

“The gray things wanted to kiss them, you see, but I couldn't let them. I was clever. I hid them under the good feather pillow and now even / can't find them!” She began to laugh, making a horrible low whirring sound in her throat.

“They're small and gray and wet, aren't they?” Gregory said sharply. “They've got big feet, webbed like frogs, but they're heavy and short, aren't they, and they have fangs like a snake, haven't they?”

She looked doubtful. Then her eye seemed to catch a move– ment. She looked fixedly to one side. “Here comes one now, the female one,” she said.

Gregory turned to look where she did. Nothing was visible. His mouth was dry. “How many are there, Mrs. Grendon?”

Then he saw the short grass stir, flatten, and raise near at hand, and let out a cry of alarm. Wrenching off his riding boot, he swung it in an arc, low above the ground. It struck something concealed in thin air. Almost at once, he received a terrific kick in the thigh, and fell backwards. Despite the hurt, fear made him jump up almost at once.

Mrs. Grendon was changing. Her mouth collapsed as if it would run off one corner of her face. Her head sagged to one side. Her shoulders fell. A deep crimson blush momentarily suffused her features, then drained, and as it drained she dwindled like a deflating rubber balloon. Gregory sank to his knees, whimpering, buried his face in his hands, and pressed his hands to the grass. Darkness overcame him.

His senses must have left him only for a moment. When he pulled himself up again, the almost empty bag of women's clothes was still settling slowly to the ground.

“Joseph! Joseph!” he yelled. Nancy had fled. In a distracted mixture of panic and fury, he dragged his boot on again and rushed round the house towards the cowsheds.

Neckland stood halfway between barn and mill, rubbing his skull. In his rattled state, the sight of Gregory apparently in full pursuit made him run away.

“Neckland!” Gregory shouted. He ran like mad for the other. Neckland bolted for the mill, jumped inside, tried to pull the door to, lost his nerve, and ran up the wooden stairs. Gregory bellowed after him.

The pursuit took them right to the top of the mill. Neckland had lost enough wit even to kick over the bolt of the trapdoor. Gregory, burst it up and climbed out panting. Throughly cowed, Neckland backed towards the opening until he was almost out on the little platform above the sails.

“You'll fall out, you idiot,” Gregory warned. “Listen, Neckland, you have no reason to fear me. I want no enmity between us. There's a bigger enemy we must fight. Look!”

He came towards the low door and looked down at the dark surface of the pond. Neckland grabbed the overhead pulley for security and said nothing.

“Look down at the pond,” Gregory said. “That's where the -Aurigans live. My GodBert, look, there one goes!”

The urgency in his voice made the farmhand look down where he pointed. Together, the two men watched as a depression slid over the black water; an overlapping chain of ripples swung back from it. At approximately the middle of the pond, the depression became a commotion. A small whirlpool formed and died, and the ripples began to settle.

“There's your ghost, Bert,” Gregory gasped. “That must have been the one that got poor Mrs. Grendon. Now do you be– lieve?”

“I never heard of a ghost as lived under water,” Neckland gasped.