Volume I Part 17 (1/2)

”Yes. We can bunk back if we see anything,” said Michael. ”I like this.”

They walked on following the zigzags of the path, but stopped dead as a blackbird shrilled and flapped into the bushes affrighted.

”By Jove, that beastly bird made me awfully funky,” said Michael.

”Let's go back,” said Hands. ”Suppose we got murdered. People do in France.”

”Rot,” said Michael. ”Not in a private garden, you cuckoo.”

With mutual encouragement the two boys wandered on, until they found farther progress barred by a high hedge, impenetrable apparently and viewless to Michael and Hands who were not very tall.

”What sucks!” said Michael. ”I hate turning back. I think it's rotten to turn back. Don't you? Hullo!” he cried. ”Look here, Hands. Here's a regular sort of tunnel going down hill. It's quite steep.”

In a moment Hands and Michael were half sliding, half climbing down a cliff. The lower they went, the faster they travelled and soon they were sliding all the way, because they had to guard their faces against the brambles that twined above them.

”Good Lord!” gasped Michael, as he b.u.mped down a sheer ten-feet of loose earth. ”I'm getting jolly b.u.mped. Look out, Hands, you kicked my neck, you a.s.s.”

”I can't help it,” gasped Hands. ”I'm absolutely slipping, and if I try to catch hold, I scratch myself.”

They were sliding so fast that the only thing to do was to laugh and give way. So, with shouts and laughter and b.u.mps and jolts and the pus.h.i.+ng of loose stones and earth before them, Michael and Hands came with a run to the bottom of the cliff and landed at last on soft sea-sand.

”By gum,” said Michael, ”we're right on the beach. What a rag!”

The two boys looked back to the scene of their descent. It was a high cliff covered with shrubs and brambles, apparently una.s.sailable. Before them was the sea, pale blue and gold, and to the right and to the left were the flat lonely sands. They ran, shouting with excitement, towards the rippling tide. The sand-hoppers buzzed about their ankles: Hands tripped over a jelly-fish and fell into several others: sea-gulls swooped above them, crying continually.

”It's like Robinson Crusoe,” Michael declared.

He was mad with the exhilaration of possession. He owned these sands.

”Oh, young Hands fell down on the sands,” he cried, bursting into uncontrollable laughter at the absurdity of the rhyme. Then he found razor-sh.e.l.ls and waved his arms triumphantly. He found, too, wine-stained sh.e.l.ls and rosy sh.e.l.ls and great purple mussels. He and Hands took off their shoes and stockings and ran through the limpid water that sparkled with gold and tempted them to wade for ever ankle deep. They reached a broken ma.s.s of rock which would obviously be surrounded by water at high tide; they clambered up to the summit and found there gra.s.s and rabbits' holes.

”It's a real island,” said Michael. ”It is! I say, Hands, this is our island. We discovered it. Bags I, we keep it.”

”Don't let's get caught by the tide,” suggested cautious Hands.

”All right, you funk,” jeered Michael.

They came back to the level sands and wandered on towards the black point of cliff bounding the immediate view.

”I say, there's a cave. I bet you there's a cave,” Michael called to his companion who was examining a dead fish.

”Wait a jiffy,” shouted Hands; but Michael hurried on to the cave. He wanted to be the first to enter under its jagged arch. Already he could see the silver sand s.h.i.+mmering upon the threshold of the inner darkness.

He walked in, awed by the secrecy of this sea-cavern, almost expectant of a mermaid or octopus in the deepest cranny. Suddenly he stopped. His heart beat furiously: his head swam: his legs quivered under him. Then he turned and ran towards the light.

”Good lummy!” said Hands, when Michael came up to him. ”Whatever's the matter? You're simply frightfully white.”

”Come away,” said Michael. ”I saw something beastly.”

”What was it?”