So they raced back to the Splendide, Found that Woggs had packed their kits up Ready for a hasty exit, For already flames were lapping, Like the waves, against the Splendide. All along the Odos Nike Clouds of smoke came welling faster, Thicker than a fog in London, And a million sparks were whirling, And the flames were sweeping nearer. Coughing, choking, nearly blinded, Tiadatha, Woggs and Percy Stumbled through the smoky blackness, Tripping over bits of wreckage, Fought their way along the sea front, While the sparks came showering on them Like confetti at a wedding, And they got the wind up badly— Worse than on that April evening When they went for Johnny Bulgar— Passed the old White Tower panting, Reached the French Club Courtyard breathless. In the Courtyard of the French Club On its side an urn reposes, Old and huge and most capacious, Dug up by our gallant Allies From the heart of Macedonia, And it seemed to Tiadatha Just the haven that they wanted, So he bade Woggs dump their kits in, Bade him scramble in and guard them, Then went back to do the hero With a very breathless Percy. All the streets were wild confusion, Refugees were streaming Eastward, Pouring Eastward in their thousands, Some with loaded carts and donkeys, Some with gharries piled to heaven. Old men bleating, children screaming, Broken-hearted women sobbing, Wailing for their homes and treasures. All the streets were blocked and littered With all kinds of goods and chattels, Feather mattresses and tables, Chairs and clocks and iron bedsteads, Looking glasses, jugs and bundles, Pillows, pots and pans and pictures.