Menacingly he advanced towards them. A woman cried out in fear. The line wavered at its most immediately threatened point， then stiffened again， stood firm. The consciousness of being in overwhelming force had given these sightseers a courage which the Savage had not expected of them. Taken aback， he halted and looked round.
“Why don’t you leave me alone？” There was an almost plaintive note in his anger.
“Have a few magnesium-salted almonds！” said the man who， if the Savage were to advance， would be the first to be attacked. He held out a packet. “They’re really very good， you know，” he added， with a rather nervous smile of propitation. “And the magnesium salts will help to keep you young.”
The Savage ignored his offer. “What do you want with me？” he asked， turning from one grinning face to another. “What do you want with me？”
“The whip，” answered a hundred voices confusedly. “Do the whipping stunt. Let’s see the whipping stunt.”
Then， in unison and on a slow， heavy rhythm， “We-want-the whip，” shouted a group at the end of the line. “We–want–the whip.”
Others at once took up the cry， and the phrase was repeated， parrot-fashion， again and again， with an ever-growing volume of sound， until， by the seventh or eighth reiteration， no other word was being spoken. “We–want–the whip.”
They were all crying together； and， intoxicated by the noise， the unanimity， the sense of rhythmical atonement， they might， it seemed， have gone on for hours-almost indefinitely. But at about the twenty-fifth repetition the proceedings were startlingly interrupted. Yet another helicopter had arrived from across the Hog’s Back， hung poised above the crowd， then dropped within a few yards of where the Savage was standing， in the open space between the line of sightseers and the lighthouse. The roar of the air screws momentarily drowned the shouting； then， as the machine touched the ground and the engines were turned off： “We–want–the whip； we–want–the whip，” broke out again in the same loud， insistent monotone.