During the fortnight that followed the lookouts' room in the old empty house marked "Bunham's Patent Locks Ltd" became the centre for the collection of all gear that might turn out to be useful on the expedition. Under the watchful eye of Knocker it was stacked and sorted. Accepted or refused, everything was entered into a large ledger; anything left over was going to be raffled so there was great interest in the High Street, and many of the Borribles were excelling themselves in collecting material. Of course a lot of others took no interest at all and if they found something useful amongst their loot, well they just kept it.
There were life-jackets from the sports' section of Ardens and Nobbs, thick warm coats from Walker's, sleeping-bags, unbreakable nylon rope for climbing up trees and the sides of houses, stout boots, oilskins, woolen underwear, sharp knives, sou'westers, ski-goggles, corduroy trousers with knee pads and small shoulder satchels converted into rucksacks.
Looking at his inventory Knocker felt pleased; every eventuality had been foreseen. The store-cupboard was full and the lookouts' room was piled high with valuable items. The only space left clear was a small area round his desk and a kind of corridor to each of the doors.
One day his contented musing was interrupted by Lightfinger who came into the improvised warehouse and sidled between the goods towering above his head.
"You look tired," he said.
"I am that," answered Knocker. "I think I've got everything now, though I suppose I'm bound to have forgotten something."
"Well, you haven't finished yet, mate," said Lightfinger. "Spiff wants to see you right away, upstairs."
Knocker ran up to the ground floor landing and knocked on Spiff's door.
"Come in," cried the rough voice and Knocker did so.
"Ah, there you are, Knocker, sit down, good news, they're here."
"Who?" asked Knocker who was very tired and whose mind was still counting hot-water bottles and ice-axes.
"Oh, come on," said Spiff. "The Champions, the Brightest of the Borribles, the Magnificent Eight, the two thirds of a Dozen, call 'em what you like, they're here."
"Where?" asked Knocker, sitting up in his chair.
"They're in the store-room under the gym at forty-five Rowena Crescent, other side of Prince's Head. I want you to put them through basic and advanced lookout training, even if they are lookouts already. Make sure they are first-class thieves, good at shoplifting, Woollie-dodging; and see they know the Borrible proverbs by heart, all the usual kind of thing. Then take them on a few courses in Battersea Park, I know they don't like the countryside, but they've got to get used to it; Rumbledom's rough. I'll give you a fortnight, that's all. There'll be another bloke to help you, he's from the Northcote Road lot, was brought up in a paratrooper's family before he was Borribled, he could be useful. By the way," Spiff threw over some books and Knocker caught them in his lap, "you'd better read those from cover to cover, they're the Rumble manuals, their whole history from the word go, gives the layout of their place, the structure of their command, the way they fight with their Rumble-sticks. Nasty prodders, they are, with a four-inch nail at the end. Everything's there. Get on with it, Knocker. I'll come and see you in two weeks' time. If there's anything you need, send a runner."
Knocker gathered up the books and got up to leave, but he was stopped.
"Oh, yes, in the first volume I've made a list of the Eight High Rumbles of Rumbledom, their names. We thought it would be a good idea if we gave each of your Borribles one of those names to win, so if they ever get that far, your blokes will know exactly which Rumble he's got to do for. Good idea, isn't it?"
"How shall I give them out? Did you decide that?"
Spiff laughed to himself mysteriously. "You'd better put the names into a hat and let them draw for them, then there can be no arguments about the targets they are given." The steward hesitated and then laughed again. "That is except two of them, those you'll have to put into a separate hat. You'll see them marked on the list. Go on, buzz off, Knocker."
Knocker whistled as he went down the stairs. He would dearly have loved to go on the expedition and to have earned a new name and a new story, but fancy going through life with a Rumble title, that would be strange. Then he reflected that it was not the name after all but the story it carried with it that mattered. He could think of some fine Borribles with the most extraordinary monikers but when you saw them or heard their names you didn't think of the word alone or its sound, you thought of the life and the deeds that lay beyond it, the story.
Stories are very important to Borribles. Most of the time they can't have a real adventure because they are too busy, but they read tales that deal with exciting things, like westerns or spy-stories or science fiction. For a Borrible the next best thing to an adventure of his own is hearing other Borribles recount their adventures and how they won their names. That's why they like doing outlandish things, so they can tell their stories afterwards and exaggerate what happened. They like winning their adventures of course but, just like most other people, they very often lose, but that is all right as long as it makes a good story.
Knocker left the house and made his way up the High Street. There was no doubt in his mind as he threaded his way along the pavements; the eight champions who were going on this adventure would have wonderful stories to tell. The Rumble names they were going to win would remind them of their targets during the expedition and, in years to come, if they were successful, everyone who heard the names would know how they had been won. "Yes," concluded Knocker as he turned into Rowena Crescent, "a clever idea."
Outside number forty-five Knocker stopped to make sure his hat was on firmly. The gym was a long low building looking like an empty pub and faced with green tiles. Above the door and the three long windows was a notice board. Knocker looked up at it, though he knew what it said: "Rowena Gym. Tough Guys for Stage and Screen and T.V. Stunt Men. Kung Fu. Laetitia Martin, prop."
Knocker could hear grunts and groans coming from inside. That would be adults trying to break into the big-time. In the pavement he saw the tell-tale grilles showing him the basement where the Borribles would be. Tightening his grip round the Rumble books Knocker went through the main entrance and down a corridor that was tiled in the same dirty colour as the front of the building. A porter threw open the door to his office and stood right in front of the pint-sized Borrible. He looked huge with his legs spread and his hands on his hips. He had a cauliflower ear and his breath smelt sickly sweet with brown ale.
"And where d'you think you're going, mush?"
"It's all right, "lied Knocker," my big brother's here and I got to give him these books. I'm late already."
The man thought slowly, then, "Hmm, okay, but don't hang about. Kids ain't allowed in here, specially little squirts like you. I'll clip you round the ear, I will."
Knocker shuddered at the idea, pulled his hat down hard and bobbed away.
At the end of the corridor Knocker found two staircases, one going up, the other down. Knocker allowed one of his books to fall to the ground and as he picked it up he looked under his arm and saw that the doorman was still watching. Knocker went up to the first floor, waited a while, then crept back down the stairs. The corridor was now empty so he descended the dank cement steps until it became so dark that he had to feel his way. He groped along a wall until he came up to a rough wooden door which did not give when he pushed it. He gave the Borrible knock, gently at first and then, when nothing happened, he knocked a little louder, one long, two shorts, then a long, "Dah . . . di-di . . . dah."
There was a slight noise behind the door, a bolt clanged, a lock clashed and an eye peered out through a slit. .
"Borrible?" asked the person behind the door.
"Borrible," answered Knocker.
The door was opened enough for Knocker to pass through and then it was closed and bolted behind him. He found himself in a long dusty room with exercise bars covering each wall from floor to ceiling. From the central beams hung thick ropes for climbing. Mats were piled on the parquet flooring and Knocker could see all kinds of equipment for improving the efficiency of the human machine. The room was lit by long narrow windows situated under the grilles that Knocker had seen in the pavement outside. The light that slanted across the room was grey and faltering, losing itself before it reached the corners. It was so dull that Knocker could hardly make out the eight shapes sitting quietly on a bench at the far end of the gym.
The chief lookout turned to the Borrible next to him. "Northcote Road?" he asked, and his companion nodded.
"Name is Dodger," he said, and smiled.
"That sounds like a good name," said Knocker, "you must have had a good adventure getting it. You must tell me one day."
"Everyone knows how you got your name, Knocker, that's one of the best Borrible stories ever told."
It is usual for Borribles meeting for the first time to exchange compliments on their respective names and the winning of them. Until they have a name Borribles are known simply as "You, Oi", or "Mush", sometimes as "Fingy", or even "Wazzisname". To call a named Borrible by one of the foregoing is an unforgivable insult and will lead to fighting. Borribles are great scrappers, mainly because they are used to it.
An even greater insult for a named Borrible is to hint that he acquired his name only because he'd found it, or someone had thrown it away. And to an un-named one it is very galling to have it suggested that he is nameless because no one has yet had the devious ingenuity to invent an epithet bad enough for him.
Knocker inspected the Northcote Road Borrible and liked what he saw. It seemed to him that they would get on. He smiled.
Instead of the usual woollen cap Dodger wore an army beret of a dark colour and stuck into it was the badge of the Parachute Regiment, shining bright.
"Army background," observed Knocker.
"Oh, yes," said Dodger proudly, "Parachute Regiment and SAS until I became a Borrible. Might not have run away at all if they hadn't wanted to pack me off to some school. Up'ntil then I'd spent all my time watching the soldiers doing their training. That was the life."
Knocker laughed. "Well, we'd better get going, we haven't got all that long." They turned from the door and strolled down the long hall, their feet kicking into piles of rubbish and releasing stale smells from old cartons.
"How did you get in here?" asked Knocker.
Dodger pointed to the ceiling. "I had the bolts off a couple of those grilles in the pavement. Easy. That way we won't have to go past 'Punchie' the porter every day."
"I'll remember next time."
The Eight sat motionless on the bench. Some leaned back against the wall with their eyes closed; some held their heads in their hands and others sat looking straight in front of them, staring at Knocker.
At a sign from Knocker Dodger switched on some electric lights and the Borribles blinked their eyes. "Stand up. Hats off."
When they had done what Knocker had asked he walked down the line and inspected their ears to see if they showed signs of the intelligence he was expecting. It was a manoeuvre that gave him time to think. He would have admitted to no one, apart from Spiff perhaps, that he was flabbergasted. One of the champions he noticed was black. Of course he knew that many Borribles were black, more and more all the time. There were a lot in Battersea, Tooting, and a greater number even in Brixton; he just hadn't thought of one on this expedition. He had no one to blame but himself for this oversight, he was chief lookout and his mind should have been open to all possibilities, not drifting around in preconceptions. Mentally he kicked himself for being a fool, but he hadn't finished kicking himself yet. When he stopped at the end of the row he found that the last two Borribles were females. Here his surprise nearly got the better of him, but he pursed his lips and pretended to be thinking. One of the girls smiled and to cover his embarrassment Knocker looked closely at her ears. They indicated a high degree of intelligence and great individuality—and that could mean trouble.
Now Knocker knew why Spiff had laughed and why he had said he'd have to put the names into two different hats.
Knocker went back to where Dodger stood, handed over the Rumble books, and took the list of names from his pocket. He looked at it, making the eight champions wait. Finally he said: "You will be here for two weeks. We are going to see how good you really are. When Dodger and I have satisfied ourselves about your basic knowledge we will move on to more specialist skills, but before that I want to be convinced that you are good: good with a catapult, good with your hands, good with your feet. I want you to be the best runners, the best fighters, and I want to see how you deal with adults in tricky situations. You'd better be the best if you want to go on this trip, because if I don't think you are, you ain't going."
Knocker looked along the faces, scrutinising them one after the other. "Anyone hears an order from me or Dodger, jump. That's against the grain for a Borrible, I know it, but there hasn't been an adventure like this in years and if you want to be in on it you've got to do what I say. Any questions?"
There were no questions.
"Good, now to the names. It was decided at the stewards' meeting to give you your names now—provisionally."
There was a stir in the line and eyes flashed.
"This is to make it more convenient for me during training and for you all when you're out on the adventure. These names will not be confirmed until your return—if you ever make it. These names have been lent to you on trust. One false step at any time and your name will be withdrawn, and you will never be given another adventure."
There was silence, the eight faces looked at him and waited. They were tense and excited, but these Borribles were too canny to give much away in their expressions. Knocker liked that. He went on.
"These are fine names, names that have a good ring to them and will remind you, and others in the future, of this adventure; but more important, the name that each of you will be given is also the name of the Rumble that is your individual target. While you remember your own name you cannot forget the name of your enemy."
Knocker paused. He knew that each Borrible standing before him could hardly wait for the moment when he would carry a name; the one word which could sum up and symbolise a whole life. "All right," went on the chief lookout, "the names will be distributed by drawing lots, six names in one hat, and two names in another. Dodger."
Dodger and Knocker removed their hats and Knocker tore each name separately from the sheet that Spiff had given him. He put six names into his own woollen cap and two into the red beret of the Paratroops. Dodger held the beret while Knocker shook his own hat vigorously to mix the names fairly and squarely. "I'll start at one end and move along," he said, "it's all the luck of the draw."
He studied the face of the first person in line. By chance it was the one he had recommended to Spiff, the Battersea Borrible from the Lavender Hill nick. Knocker had always liked the look of him, although they didn't know each other very well. He was slightly built, even for a Borrible, his skin was clear and his hair was dark and tightly curled, like wire-wool. His eyes were sharp and blue and they moved quickly, but were never furtive. He smiled a lot and Knocker could see that it would take a lot to get him down. He glanced at Knocker, winked, then plunged his hand into the hat and pulled out a scrap of paper. He opened it, read it to himself and then smiled at the chief lookout. He rolled his tongue about, getting the feel of his name for the very first time.
"Bingo," he said, "the name's Bingo."
"That's a good name," said Knocker and stepped sideways. He stood in front of the black Borrible. "Where you from?" asked Knocker.
"Tooting, man, Tooting, and you?"
Knocker raised his head sharply. "I'm from here."
The Tooting Borrible, or Totter, had hair standing out in a thick solid uncut mass all round his head like a black halo. His teeth protruded and he seemed to be smiling all the time, but really his expression was one of cheerful slyness. Knocker liked that. He shook the hat again and the Totter took a piece of paper.
"My name is going to be O-ro-coc-co," he said, splitting the word into separate syllables and pronouncing them with care.
The next person was smaller than Bingo even. He had a triangular face with a pointed chin and his mousy hair lay flat across the top of his head. He had a way of wagging his head in a most knowing way; there wasn't a trick he didn't know, said his eyes. Knocker stopped in front of him with the hat and the Borrible said, "I'm from Stepney, the best place in the world."
Knocker nodded only and offered the hat. The Stepney Borrible looked at the name on the paper he had drawn and whistled, then he said, "Good, I've got the best, Vulgarian, the Chief Rumble. Don't reckon his chances when I catch up with him."
"I see you've read the books, so you know why you're here?"
" 'Course, to get a name, and because they said that this was going to be the best adventure ever." And the Borrible glanced up and down the line and the others nodded in agreement.
"You've got to convince me that you're good enough first. Then you go," said Knocker.
"Perhaps you ought to start by showing that you're good enough to train us," said a brittle voice to Knocker's right, but Knocker ignored it and moved on a step.
"I'm from Peckham," said the next one without being asked and he thrust his hand into the hat and pulled out his name. Knocker watched him closely as he read the paper. He seemed strong and resourceful. He had dark heavy eyebrows and a red face with a firm jaw and enormous shoulders and arms. The kind of bloke who would not mince his words, not very witty perhaps, but dogged and persistent.
"Well," said Knocker, "which one have you got?"
The Peckham Borrible did not even show pleasure as he said, "I've got the name I wanted, Stonks, the Keeper of the Great Door of Rumbledom. He's the strongest one, ain't he? He'll need to be when I hit him."
When Knocker came face to face with the next person he wrinkled his nose. There was an unmistakable smell about this one and Knocker guessed immediately where he came from.
"You're from Wandsworth, aren't you? A Wendle?"
"So what, some of the finest Borribles in the world have come from Wandsworth."
Knocker recognised at once the brittle voice that had spoken out of turn a little earlier. "And some of the worst," he retorted, smiling a smile that had no warmth in it.
In common with most other Borribles he wasn't over-fond of the aloof Wandsworth Brotherhood. They lived along the banks of the River Wandle in disused sewers and smelly holes they had scooped out below the streets of Wandsworth. But no one knew exactly how they lived, for they were the most suspicious and warlike of all Borribles and did not encourage visitors and rarely spoke to anyone outside their own tribe. Their skin always had a green tinge to it which came from living so much underground and being so often in and out of the filthy Wandle water. Once the Wandle had been a pleasant stream, but years of industrialisation had turned it into a treacherous ooze of green and muddy slime. The mud was a mixture of poison waste, decomposed rubbish and undigested lumps of plastic which rolled slowly along the surface skin of the river as it slid like a thick jelly down to the Thames. The Wandle mud would entrap any stranger who was foolhardy enough to wade across without guidance. No one but the Wendles knew the secret paths along the river and they would only take the traveller across for a price. Every Wendle carried the smell of the Wandsworth marshes with him—and that smell was the smell of treachery and decay. Knocker had seen few Wendles, none of them had been this close and he didn't like what he saw: the green tinge to the flesh, the dark eyes of an indeterminate colour, and the cold, proud bearing of the born scrapper. There seemed to be no spontaneous warmth in the Wendle and warmth was normally the first thing that was noticed in a Borrible.
"Take your name, any way," said Knocker flatly, and he held out his hat.
The Wendle narrowed his eyes and screwed up his mouth to prove that he didn't care a damn about Knocker or anyone else and he pulled out his name. He nodded, then he laughed loud, pleased and hostile.
"Out with it," said Knocker impatiently. "What is it?"
"What a name I have," he cried, "I shall cover it in glory."
"Or mud."
The Wendle ignored Knocker and looked up and down the line of adventurers. "Napoleon Boot," he said loudly. "Call me Napoleon Boot."
"And I suppose you know why you're going to Rumbledom?" asked Knocker.
"Why am I going?" The other was angry. "What's wrong with you? Because I hate them, that's why. I always have hated them, and if you always had 'em leering down at yer from Rumbledom, like I have, you'd hate 'em as much as I do. I don't need these other seven to come up the Burrow with me. I'll tear it apart on me tod."
Knocker shrugged. He was glad to move on to the last of the male Borribles. He looked at the face and liked it. It was square and flat, and the eyes were optimistic under the spiky brown hair. This Borrible looked like he could take a lot of knocks and still come up smiling.
"Well," he said, "as I'm last, I hardly have to take my name out, do I? I mean I've seen the books, too, like the others, even in Hoxton, so I know my name then, it's Torreycanyon."
Knocker gave the empty hat to Dodger and took the beret with the two names only in it. He stood in front of the two Borrible girls, and felt embarrassed. He was used to girls of course but not to be trained as lookouts. He didn't like the idea of girls on this adventure and wondered how it had happened. He looked from one to the other of them; he was forced to admit that they were tough-looking, and certainly their ears were amongst the most beautifully shaped he had ever seen, denoting strong character, unbendable wills and great slyness and cunning. He couldn't fault them there. But, he thought, they'll never be able to support the rigours of the trek, the dangers, the rough living out-of-doors, every night a different bivouac. And what effect would they have on the team as a whole? That really worried him. He knew Borribles, they would quarrel and fight just as well as they could steal.
Knocker glanced back down the line and found the others watching him closely. Orococco was smiling, his white teeth shining against his black skin; even the Wendle, Napoleon Boot, was smirking.
"Where are you girls from?" asked Knocker.
"Whitechapel," said the first.
"Neasden," said the second. Knocker held out the hat to the girl from Whitechapel. "Take one of these," he said. The girl took out a piece of paper and read her name simply, with no comment. "Chalotte," she said, her voice cool and relaxed. Her green eyes flickered over Knocker's face and she smiled. Knocker thought she was beautiful; her hair fell to her waist and was blond, her skin shone and her legs were well-shaped and long.
He gave the last piece of paper to the girl from Neasden. "Sydney," she said when she'd looked at it. Knocker looked at her. Her hair was dark and shiny and her eyes were grey and her face was kind.
"Why did Whitechapel and Neasden send you two?" he asked, disguising his shyness behind a sarcastic tone. "Haven't they got any male Borribles out there?"
Chalotte said, "The message that came to Whitechapel specified a female Borrible."
"And the Neasden message."
Chalotte nodded. "If you look at the Rumble books you'll see that two of the High Command are female. That's why we were asked, I should think."
"Hmm," said Knocker. He went to move away from them, and then turned suddenly, raising his voice. "There will be no favouritism, you will be treated just like the others, no difference at all. You will march like the others, you will train like the others and sleep on the ground like the others, and you will wear the same combat clothes. When you leave you must expect the same conditions—exactly. You will march as long, eat as little and fight as much as every other member of the expeditionary force. No favours, so ask for none. You will take the same risks as the others, and maybe perish with them. Do you understand?"
If Knocker had hoped to frighten Chalotte and Sydney with this outburst he had failed. They looked at each other and then looked at the chief lookout.
"That is why we came," said Chalotte and quoted a Borrible proverb. "No name earns itself."
"Yes," said Sydney, "we know the score. Any time you think we aren't up to scratch you send us back."
Knocker turned again and walked to where he could address all of them. "Right," he began, "now you have your names, training will last a fortnight, all day and every day. I'll give the details tomorrow. First thing you must do is learn your enemy. We have the Rumble books here but we have something that is better, Spiff's notes and studies of the enemy and their way of life. We will start reading right away. In his notes you will find a detailed description of each of the Rumbles of the High Command. Now you know your names you know which one is yours and you must know exactly what he or she looks like. You will have to distinguish between him and a thousand others right in the middle of a punch-up. Another thing, we shall be training with the Rumble-stick or sticker, the enemy's weapon, a four-inch nail stuck into the end of a lance of wood. They use it like a spear, or as a quarter-staff and dagger combined. The Rumble is good with it, cuts his teeth on it—you've got to be better. From now on we work hard. Your survival will depend on this training."
The next two weeks were weeks of exhausting activity. The eight members of the expeditionary force never stopped working. Every morning at five Knocker had them on their feet for half an hour's physical jerks, just to get the blood circulating properly through their brains. After breakfast they had a morning training session inside the gym, the subject chosen by Dodger or Knocker. They did things like Rumble-stick combat, adult evasion and impromptu excuse making. They perfected their tactics for stealing in pairs and in fours and they practised racing starts and fast running, for all Borribles are rapid movers. Before lunch they slipped out for a quick run, just a mile or so to improve their wind. To keep them in trim Knocker made them responsible for stealing their own midday meal and they ate it all together in some uncomfortable spot along by the river on some windswept bomb-site, or in some draughty house with no windows. This was to get them used to the conditions they would meet when they set out on the adventure itself. Knocker watched the girls closely but they never complained and they did everything just as well as anyone else.
After the midday meal they went back to the gym for a short rest of half an hour or so and then Knocker would test them on Borrible knowledge and on Rumble studies. This was the kind of information that each expedition member was expected to have at his fingertips. He tested them a lot on this so that every one of them had a mind as sharp and as hard and as useful as a brand new tin-opener. They learned practical information too about how to avoid capture, how to escape when caught and how to aid other Borribles when in trouble. Knocker insisted that the eight of them should have all this knowledge ready in their minds so it could pop up automatically. There was no telling what they might come across on the long and dangerous journey to Rumbledom; they would have to be prepared for anything and everything.
After the session with the books there was always more physical training. Dodger taught them how to jump from a great height and fall without hurting themselves; how to take punches rolling with the blow, how to duck and weave. He taught them the vulnerable spots of the Rumble anatomy and again how to use the Rumblestick. Then, in the latter part of the afternoon, Knocker, who'd had a great deal of experience, more than any other known Borrible, taught them field tactics which was all about crossing commons and parks. He took them into the wildest terrain, like the middle of Clapham Common which was very open and deserted, just the place for Rumbles to burrow in secret and establish themselves unnoticed. Like other Borribles Knocker much preferred crowded streets with markets and shops, but unlike the others he'd been obliged, because of his calling, to do an enormous amount of country work. Somehow he had made himself overcome the basic fear that Borribles have when faced with woods and fields. They hate such things. "Fields", they say, "are always windy and there is nowhere to hide, no crowds to get lost in, and there is nothing to pick up, no lorries for things to fall off. It's not so bad when the sun is hot and a Borrible can lie under the shade of a tree looking at the sky moving between the branches, but even then a Borrible really likes to be up to something, in the street."
In spite of all this Knocker forced his team to undertake many a journey into Battersea Park and he taught them how to listen for the sound underneath the ground that told them that a Rumble or a mole or a rat was down there. They learned how to climb trees and how to jump from them and how to crawl through bushes. But, over and above all this, Knocker made them train hour after hour with the Borribles' traditional and preferred weapon. It had been used by them for generations, and had been chosen for its simplicity, its range, its power and its deadliness. It was a weapon that was very ancient but was as efficient as any modern invention. It could be made anywhere and, back in the days of the nineteenth century when Borribles had endured great hardships and had been hounded from place to place, it had become their favourite method of defense because of the cheapness of its manufacture. The weapon was of course that very dangerous one, the catapult.
Every Borrible was born an expert with the catapult, but the Eight would have to surpass the usual standards and become boringly accurate, able to hit a Rumble on the snout each time they fired.
"You must never miss," Knocker told them. "You will have a great deal of provisions to carry, but if you all keep ten stones in reserve you should be able to account for eighty of the enemy between you. If you are besieged, always choose somewhere where you can find plenty of ammunition lying about, then you will be invincible." And so each of the Eight became a crack shot; every one of them could take a fly off a park-keeper's nose at a hundred yards and he'd never even notice.
That was how every day was filled. After the daily sortie to the Park they returned to Rowena where they found that the High Street Borribles had provided them with a supper of food taken from the market. They ate with huge appetites and, after talking to each other for a little while, they rolled up in their sleeping-bags and snoozed on the floor of the long, dusty room. The next day they would have to wake early and do the same things again—run a little faster, shoot a little straighter. They would have to tackle difficult questions and find new answers to the problems that Knocker would devise. He would make them go over the expedition route on the street map of London and play war-games where he would imagine them in impossible situations and oblige them to think their way clear as quickly as they could and if Knocker wasn't satisfied they would have to do it again, and then again. They were tired all the time.
About one o'clock on a grey afternoon towards the end of the fortnight, Spiff, with two or three other stewards from the High Street, made an appearance in the store-room of the Rowena Crescent Gym. It was the beginning of the rest period and Spiff walked around the room talking to the Borribles who were stretched out on their sleeping-bags dozing with their eyes only half open. When he'd had a short word with each, he came over to speak to Knocker and Dodger.
"Afternoon, Knocker," said Spiff, nodding his head abruptly at the two stewards by his side. "This is Rasher and this is Ziggy."
Knocker stood up and said, "Those are fine names, certainly, I would like to hear the stories one day."
The two stewards nodded but did not smile. They looked out of humour.
"Yes," said Spiff, "that will have to wait of course. Now, Knocker, you've reached the end of the two weeks. How have you got on?"
Knocker reached for a large book on his desk. It contained a detailed description of each Borrible's training, together with various comments.
Spiff waved it aside. "No, I can look at that later, just a verbal report will do."
"Keep it general, too," said Rasher acidly. "Well," said Knocker, looking sideways at Dodger, "they are very good, all of them. Some are better at one thing than another, but they are all naturals with the catapult. They could knock off a running cat with their eyes closed, girls as well, in fact Chalotte is better than all of the others, except perhaps Orococco. Hand-to-hand fighting is good, climbing good, running very fast. With the Rumble-stick they vary, but Bingo is fantastic. They aren't so good at scouting work in the countryside, but that takes years of practice and it's unnatural, but they're first-class in the streets and markets, you hardly see their hands come up from beneath a barrow when they takes their dinner. Marvellous. And all of them are dead keen." Knocker hesitated and lowered his voice." I'm only worried about one of them, although he's worked as hard as anyone, harder. But I dunno, there's something that worries me about Napoleon Boot. He always seems to be thinking about something else, there's a slimy feel to him, it's . . . well, to tell the truth, Spiff, I dunno, it's just a feeling."
Dodger nodded at the three stewards to substantiate what Knocker had said.
Spiff looked back down the hall to where the Borribles were resting. Some were reading the Rumble books, others were just relaxing and looking at the ceiling. Napoleon Boot was scrutinising the road map of Greater London and memorising street names.
"He never stops," said Knocker. "They all know The Borrible Book of Proverbs by heart, but Napoleon knows it backwards and sideways as well. He's too good to be true."
Spiff creased his face. "Well, son, there's nothing we can do now. They have to have a Wendle with 'em because they've got to cross the Wandle. You know how suspicious they are of anybody who wants to cross their bloody river." He sniffed. "It ought to be all right, I mean the adventure is in their interest, ain't it? The Rumbles could easily burrow under Wandsworth Common and move from there down to the streets. The Wendles are in more danger than we are simply because they're nearer to Rumbledom, ain't they? It'll work out, you'll see."
There was silence as if nobody agreed with him, not even Spiff himself. He changed the subject.
"Well, your blokes must leave soon anyway, the longer they wait the more dangerous it is. There was a psychological advantage in letting the Rumbles know we were on to them, but the longer we take in getting up there, the more time they will have to prepare their defences. Our Eight might not be able to get into the Rumble Burrow. Imagine—all that way for nothing!"
Ziggy, who had been trying to interrupt Spiff's flow, at last got a word in. "I've never liked this idea, you know, Spiff. I think we should have gone up there in force, taken them on, given them a thumping, duffed 'em up."
"Out of your mind," said Spiff impatiently; he was always right and knew it. "We'd have been outnumbered ten to one and they'd have been fighting on their own ground. We stand a much better chance by sending eight professionals like this, and eliminating their leaders, mark my words."
"Oh, it sounds all right on paper," said Ziggy condescendingly, "but I don't think that those eight over there can manage it. They haven't done anything yet. Anyone can fire a catapult at a Woollie and run—but what if it's a Rumble with a Rumble-stick at your throat, eh?"
"Look," said Knocker getting annoyed, "I've trained this lot. If anyone can get inside the Rumble Burrow they can."
"Rubbish," said Rasher, joining in the argument, "they don't stand a monkey's."
"They do," said Knocker.
"They don't," said Ziggy.
The stewards frowned at their feet.
Spiff sniffed again. "I've been looking at the map, Knocker. I thought that the Eight ought to go up the Thames, from St Mary's to Wandsworth Reach. I know it's dangerous, but it will save days on the journey, and it means the Eight will be going in from a direction that the Rumbles won't dream of. Even if they've got lookouts deployed as far as Wandsworth Common Railway and Earlsfield, we'll outflank them. What do you say?"
Knocker was angry all over again. "But, Spiff," he cried, grabbing the steward's arm, "the river is a death trap, all those barges and tugs and police launches, they'd be run down or run in without a chance. They've had no training for water. I don't even know if they can row. I thought they were going to march overland, and now you want to throw 'em into the river. It's not on, Spiff."
"How far do you think they'd get then if they went overland," asked Ziggy, "with a solid line of Rumbles from Merton to the River Thames?"
Rasher shoved his face up to Knocker's and tilted it sideways. "If your blokes are so good, why are you making excuses? Can't they do it?"
"It's a question of time, training," spluttered Knocker.
Spiff nodded. "Just so, you'll get an extra day for boat training and rowing."
"But we haven't got a boat," said Knocker, looking at all three of the stewards as if they were mad.
"Oh, you'll need a boat," said Spiff, "to row up the river. You'll need one before then to train in, won't yer?"
"Where can we get one?" asked Dodger, looking distraught.
Spiff turned on him angrily. "You're a Borrible, ain't yer? Steal one—this afternoon—instead of kipping."
"Yes," said Ziggy. "Let's see how good this team is. But I tell you, if you can't get over this little problem I shall use all my influence to see that the adventure is cancelled. I've never liked it you know."
Spiff laughed. "Don't take any notice of him. I know you'll manage, Knocker. You just prove to us that your blokes are as good as you say they are, eh?" And with that the three stewards climbed up the wall on the exercise bars and one by one they disappeared through the narrow windows that led to Rowena Crescent.
Knocker was shaking with temper as he watched them go. He had a tendency to take things seriously at the best of times but this criticism of his team and his training of them was a personal insult.
"Just like that, eh?" he said to Dodger. "Get a boat, steal it, launch it, learn to row it, just like that!"
"And only today and tomorrow to do it in," said Dodger soberly.
Knocker walked over to where the Eight were waiting, propped up on their elbows, their interest aroused by the discussion. "Well," he said, "no rest for the wicked. Get your hats on, I'm taking you to the lake in Battersea Park. We're going to steal a boat."
Only one person amongst the Eight registered enthusiasm. Napoleon's dark face became brilliant. He stood up and said, "A boat, eh? That's good, know about boats we do, up the Wandle."
Knocker was relieved. Of course, the Wandsworth Borribles lived on or near water all the time. Napoleon could be a great help. "We're going to have to steal a boat that can make the river trip along the Thames as far as the mouth of the Wandle. Napoleon, can you teach this team how to row and steer?"
"Why, of course, Knocker," said Napoleon, with a slight sneer colouring his voice. "It'll be a pleasure."
One by one they slipped from the gym and went their separate ways to the Park. They reassembled by the huge iron gates and walked along the roadway till they arrived at the boating lake. Each Borrible had his hat well down over his ears, a catapult under his jumper and a few stones ready in a pocket, just in case.
Knocker felt sad, for soon the Eight would be gone. What an adventure it would be for them. What times they would have; but he, Knocker, would be left behind and forgotten. He had worried about it every day but think as he might he could see no way at all by which he could wangle his inclusion in the team that would set off on the perilous journey to Rumbledom. He shook the desire from his mind, it was no use thinking about it.
It was not long before he and the others came in sight of the small wooden hut where tickets were sold to those who wished to spend an hour boating. The high summer season was nearly over and most of the boats were chained to one of the islands in the middle of the lake out of harm's way. Only about a dozen or so were roped to the little jetty which stood near the ticket-office. Inside the wooden shed was a park-keeper with a brown suit and a dark brown hat. He was licking a pencil and writing with it slowly in a big book. Not one boat moved on the flat surface of the water. Knocker and the others sat down by the edge of a path to watch. After a while Knocker said, "What do you think of the boats, Napoleon?"
"We're a bit far away to judge," said the Wendle, "but you see they've got some metal ones there, by the jetty." His voice changed when he talked about boats. He became excited and his face shone, while his companions looked terrified. Borribles tend to dislike water even more than they dislike woods and fields. "They aren't really any good for a river trip, too short and wide, unstable, and not big enough anyway to take eight of us. Those are the ones we want." He pointed out to the islands and the others could see that amongst the scores of metal boats were a few old long ones, built of wood with seats and cushions and rudders that were worked by two pieces of rope. They were much bigger.
"Lovely, graceful things they are," said Napoleon enthusiastically, "low in the water, they will float over any wave or wash cast up by barges on the river. Four rowlocks, I should think, two teams of rowers . . . if the girls are up to it." He looked behind him at Chalotte and Sydney. Chalotte said, "Get your boat first, Wen-die."
"Take it easy," said Knocker, stopping any quarrel before it started." If we want one of those wooden boats from the island we'll have to get out there. Any ideas?"
"Too far to swim," said Vulgarian, whom they all called Vulge now.
"And he won't hire us one because we're too small," said Sydney, "even if we had the money—which we haven't."
"So we'll have to pinch a metal boat to get out there," added Stonks.
"Yeah—but have you noticed," said Torreycanyon, "that they keep the oars separate, only hand 'em out with the boats, don't they? And worse, the boats tied to the island ain't got no oars at all."
There was silence. Knocker waited; this was all part of their training. He knew what he would have done; the situation obviously called for diversionary tactics of some kind. Someone would have to entice the keeper out of the little shed so that others could dash in and get some oars. Something like that was necessary.
Suddenly Napoleon Boot stood up." Look," he said, "boats is my speciality, why don't you let me do it?"
"All right," said Knocker, "who do you want to take with you?"
"I want to do this one on my own."
"On your own!" cried Vulge. "I'd like to see it."
"You will," answered Napoleon. "You will."
"Well, it better be good," said the chief lookout. "We haven't got time to waste."
"Just after nightfall tonight you will have your pick of the boats," said Napoleon scornfully, "and you'll be able to row this lot of sailors up and down till their arms drop off. How's that?"
"That'll do me fine, Napoleon Boot," said Knocker grimly.
Napoleon left them and went down the path towards the little hut on the jetty. He swaggered as he walked. The others retreated and screened themselves in some bushes. When they were settled Orococco said, "That Napoleon may smell a little but I betcha there's no flies on him."
They watched the Wendle strut towards the wooden shed. At the end of the jetty he halted, pulled his hat down over his ears and then walked straight on past.
"What's the little bleeder up to now?" asked Dodger of no one in particular, and he got no answer.
When Napoleon was small in the distance he suddenly turned and ran as fast as he could back towards the hut. He dashed to the ticket-office, threw open its door, and jumping up and down he yelled at the keeper inside. What he said the watchers could not imagine but they could see that Napoleon was very agitated. The keeper listened attentively, then he got up quickly from his stool and came out onto the jetty, pausing only to lock the door of his hut.
"That's no good," groaned Bingo, "we can't get in there now."
The keeper threw two oars into the nearest boat, picked up the tiny Napoleon and jumped aboard. The boat rocked and swayed dangerously but it did not capsize, and Napoleon seemed quite happy sitting in the stern as the keeper set the oars in the rowlocks and plyed them expertly. The little craft shot out onto the lake heading for the larger of the two islands where the unused boats were tied along the shore in rows.
Knocker looked at Dodger and shook his head. "Blessed if I know what he's at," he said. Dodger shrugged his shoulders. The boat neared the island but before it touched the shore they could see that Napoleon had got to his feet. Then the boat hit the bank, stopping abruptly, and the Wendle was shot off his feet and into the water.
Torreycanyon roared with laughter. "Cocky little stinker's fallen in," he guffawed. The others laughed too.
"Shaddup," snarled Knocker.
The park-keeper stepped into the water, wetting his trousers to the waist, and rescued Napoleon, placing the Borrible in the boat and wrapping him in a rug that he took from the bench. Then he tied the boat to a branch and wagging his finger at Napoleon he disappeared into the island's vegetation. No sooner had he gone than the watchers were amazed to see Napoleon leap up, untie the painter and row for the shore, and could that boy row! He was small but he made that boat into a living thing and it flew across the lake like a kingfisher. Knocker looked at the faces around him, jaws were open and eyes were wide.
Napoleon jumped onto the jetty and without bothering to moor the boat he ran along the wooden planking to the path and darted into a telephone box that stood empty nearby. The Borribles saw him climb up a couple of the broken window panes to reach the receiver more easily and he made a call. That done he raced off at top speed to be lost amongst some trees about half a mile away. For a while nothing happened and the watchers in the bushes stirred uneasily.
"I think that cocky little so-and-so is out of his mind," said Stonks. "All he's done is stir up trouble."
"I dunno so much," said Sydney. "Let's wait and see.
And so they waited, and they waited, and after what seemed a long while, but in reality was only ten minutes, they heard the "Hoo-haa, hoo-haa, hoo-haa," of a police siren and a patrol car skidded to a halt by the telephone box.
"Oh, lor—here comes the Woollies now," said Dodger wearily.
Two policemen threw themselves out of the car, ran down the landing-stage and tried the door to the little hut, but it was firmly locked. Then there was a hallooing and a whistling from the island and, looking up, the policemen saw the keeper jumping up and down and waving his arms and making an awful noise. He must have been quite cold because the Borribles could see that all the bottom half of him was darker than the top half, which meant he was still very wet.
The two policemen poked about in the boats for some oars, but they were all in the hut. The only oars available were in the boat that the keeper and Napoleon had used and that had drifted until it was now about ten yards from land. The policemen tried to hook it in with a long pole, but they couldn't quite reach. Another police car arrived with an Inspector in it and he took control and ordered one of his men to go out and get the boat. One of the constables took off his coat and waded into the lake, but the bottom shelved away fairly rapidly and by the time he got to the boat he was swimming. Spluttering and cursing his luck he got hold of the painter and pulled the boat to the jetty and a dry policeman got in and rowed to the island where it was the work of a minute to rescue the keeper. While the boat was returning to the shore the Head Keeper bowled up on his bicycle and stood joking with the police Inspector. They thought the episode was most hilarious and they threw back their heads and laughed and laughed. Water does that to some people.
Very soon the wet policeman and the damp keeper were together on the jetty and the Inspector sent them off in one of the cars. The Head Keeper unlocked the shed, put the oars away and locked up again. He stood talking and laughing some more with the Inspector, then they shook hands and the keeper got on his bike and pedalled back to his office, and the Inspector drove back to the police station on Lavender Hill.
It was all over. Everything was quiet and dusk began to come down over the Park. The deer, who lived behind the railings, had already disappeared into their wooden shelters. Only a few people were strolling about and all of those were making their way to the gates. Very soon now the bell would ring and Battersea Park would close for the night. The waiting and watching Borribles undid their packs, took out their greatcoats and squatted down, expecting they knew not what.
"I hardly see the point of that operation," said Sydney; she always spoke a little precisely like that. "The hut is locked and there are no oars outside. I think Napoleon has made a miscalculation somewhere."
Just at that moment there was a rustle in the bushes behind them and a very bedraggled Napoleon Boot ran up. He was panting and laughing so much that it looked like he might be sick. His hair was plastered down over his skull, his clothes were soaking and stuck to his body and his skin was steaming from the heat generated by his mad running across the Park. He fell to the ground and the sounds coming from him made his companions think that perhaps he was very ill. Knocker pulled the sodden Borrible over onto his back and peeled off the wet jacket. He then removed his own greatcoat and covered the shaking and shivering body with it.
"It looks bad," said Dodger.
"Man," cried Orococco, "we don't want a casualty before we starts."
The Borribles stood in a glum group, looking down at Napoleon. Knocker rubbed the hands and legs of the Wandsworth Borrible as hard as he could to aid the circulation. Gradually Napoleon got his breath and sat up. "Don't fuss," he said between gasps. "I'm all right, just a bit out of breath, and I can't stop laughing." And as if to prove it he started shaking and shivering again.
"There's nothing to laugh about," said Knocker sternly, relieved now that he knew that Napoleon Boot would survive. "We've wasted the whole afternoon and achieved nothing except for you to have a good giggle."
Napoleon groped into his wet clothes, there was a jangling noise and his hand reappeared clutching a massive bunch of keys.
"Look at that," he chortled. "What's that, eh? Scotch mist?"
There was a stunned silence, then Bingo asked, "Well, what is it?"
Napoleon rolled over and over with merriment. "It's the keys to the hut, of course," he spluttered when he had recovered sufficiently, "and to the whole bleedin' Park, I shouldn't wonder."
"How'd you do it?" asked Dodger. "Well," said Napoleon, "I went dashing up to the hut and pretended to cry my eyes out. 'It's my dog,' I said. 'It's my dog.' " He laughed again and the others began to laugh too. " 'He's swum over to the island,' says I, 'and he's such a little frightened lovely dog, he can't swim back.' 'That's all right,' says the keeper, 'soon get him, no trouble.' Then you saw what happened after. He goes and locks the door of the flaming hut so that was Plan A gone, in a trice. When we got near the island I pretends to get all excited about the dog, don't I? I jumps up and down and says there he is, there he is, and so I falls in—splash! Well, the keeper has kittens at that and leaps in to effect a rescue, as you might say. Well, that was the whole crux and point of Plan B. As he's carrying me back to the boat I lifts the keys out of his pocket. Well, he's all for bringing me back right away and never mind the dog. 'No, no,' says I. 'I'll get all hell beaten out of me at home.' Well, you saw the rest, I pinches the boat, gets on the blower to 'Old Bill' and tells them that Keeper 347 has been marooned on a desert island in the middle of Battersea Park while rescuing a dog. Then I takes off in the other direction. Now we've got the keys," and he jangled them in front of Knocker's face, "we can take boats when we like, and practise all night, like I said, Knocker, just like I said." And Napoleon rolled over and laughed so loudly that the others had to put a coat over his head to deaden the noise.
Knocker stood up and shook his head in admiration. The others did the same and they looked at each other in the deepening gloom and chuckled and felt confident.
As soon as they had eaten the rations they had brought with them the Borribles crept down to the hut on the lake where they had no difficulty in opening the door and stealing the oars they needed. They crowded together in one of the small metal craft and Napoleon rowed them out to the centre of the lake and they waited while the Wendle inspected the larger boats. They were fine long comfortable things, possessing four wide seats with cushions and lots of space for stowing gear fore and aft. But they were solid and heavy and would need scientific rowing.
Napoleon chose the best one and came back to report to Knocker. "Number Seventeen," he said, "been well looked after." As the group moved to embark he pulled Knocker aside, grasping his elbow. "I think the boat will be too heavy for just four to row," he said quietly. "There will have to be two of us on each oar. That means when it comes to the actual trip there will be no turn and turn about, we'll have to row all the time."
Knocker thought about it for a second. "You'll have to row by night and hide by day, and keep well away from police launches. They'll run you in, as soon as look at you. Won't take them half a second to suss a bunch of Borribles in a stolen pleasure boat."
But at that moment they didn't worry too much about the future. The novelty of boating occupied and amused them and even Knocker took a hand. Napoleon made them work very hard indeed, for they only had that night in which to learn the art of rowing. Napoleon sat in the stern and steered the boat with the two pieces of rope which were attached to each side of the rudder behind him. Dodger sat up front to make sure they didn't run into anything, though the moon had come up and it was easy to see far out over the silver water.
They sat two to an oar as Napoleon had suggested, for they would need a great deal of power when they were out on the River Thames. Not only would they have to contend with the tide but there would be waves washing outwards from passing barges and tugs, and there would always be the danger of collision. Napoleon gave them their positions in the boat and told them to keep them, except that he would take Knocker's place on the expedition because Knocker wouldn't be going.
"When we're on the river," Napoleon said, "there'll only be eight of us so there'll be no one on the rudder. That means we will have to steer by rowing; listen very carefully to my commands and act on them immediately. Anyone being a bit slow could get us run down, capsized, we could lose all our equipment and worse we could drown." And so Napoleon went on. He taught them the basic rowing commands; how to begin rowing, how to stop, how to feather the oars, and they learnt to pull steadily and hard without wasting too much of their energy. Next time they got into the boat they would be on the wide and thronged waterway of the Thames itself.
All through the night they rowed and listened to Napoleon Boot, Navigator. As the hours wore on they realised what a serious thing the river trip was and they looked at each other with concern. Their minds grew numb with the physical effort and blisters rose on their hands and still Napoleon kept them rowing till they could row as well as any Wendle and could change course at the slightest order from the stern. Only when the sky had paled and dawn climbed over the blocks of flats along Battersea Park Road did Napoleon direct them to the lake-side. Thankfully the Borribles obeyed the command to ship oars and they sighed when they heard the prow of their boat grate on the gravel of the shore. They sat motionless for a while, their heads bowed, their muscles tight. Dodger who had done little all this time stood up in the prow, stretched, then jumped ashore.
"Come on, you lot," he said, "we've got to hide this boat before it's spotted by the keepers."
Nearby was a dense clump of bushes and the Borribles man-handled the heavy boat right into the middle of them. They stumbled and tripped over their own feet so tired were they, having been awake for twenty-four hours without a break. They tore foliage from the bushes and grass from the ground and camouflaged the boat so well that it could hardly be seen, even from a distance of a yard or two. When he was quite satisfied, Knocker ordered the team of Borribles back to base. It was full daylight by the time they reached the Prince's Head and the lines of lady cleaners were already chatting at the bus stops as the Borribles turned into Rowena Crescent. They climbed into the basement gym and crawled under the sleeping-bags and blankets which were laid out on the exercise mats. There were loud groans and sighs of relief as they closed their eyes and stretched their burning limbs but Knocker could not sleep for a while. He kept asking himself the same question over and over again. "Now we've got it, how do we get it from Battersea Park to Battersea Reach?"