It was dark.
It was the darkest part of the night but Sam knew the way to Rumbledom and he pulled the cartload of Borribles joyfully, knowing in his heart that he would be beaten and cursed no more. He took them away from the hateful memories of Engadine, and Bingo, secure on the shoulders of Stonks, sang a rousing Borrible song to himself, a song that told of the dangers past and the dangers to come.
"Sound the fife and beat the drum,
We're riding, we're riding to Rumbledom!
Dewdrop's dead, and 'Erbie too,
We're going to do what we must do.
Onwards we ride to glorious fame,
To rout the Rumbles and earn a name!
With a fee and a fo and a fie and a fum,
We're riding, we're riding to Rumbledom!
From Peckham, and Stepney, and Tooting we come!
We're riding, we're riding to Rumbledom!
Wandsworth, Whitechapel and Neasden too,
We're going to do what we must do.
Ahead lies battle and maybe death,
We'll soldier on as long as we've breath
To rid the world of that snouted scum,
We're riding, we're riding to Rumbledom!
Armoured in courage from bonce to bum,
We're riding, we're riding to Rumbledom!
Though they are many and we are few,
We're going to do what we must do.
So, giddeyup Sam, and spare no speed!
Forward to war, O noble steed!
To triumph, or Hell, or Kingdom Come,
We're riding, we're riding to Rumbledom!"
Bingo's companions joined in the song, their hearts full of a divine excitement, a feeling which mingled strangely with the serene joy they felt at being Borribles, at being alive and together on an adventure that would be sung about again and again in the years to come.
Sam took them through many deserted roads and gardens and strange silent streets, heaving the old cart across the steep hills which guarded the borders of Rumbledom. The horse strode out purposefully, head down and legs thrusting hard, the colour of his coat alternating between deep purple and gold as he entered and left the quiet pools of light which fell gracefully from the tall white swan-necks of the concrete street-lamps. Sam pulled them from Brookwood to Elsenham, into Augustus where the slopes began in earnest. Up Albert Drive and Albyn, through Thursley Gardens and along Seymour and Bathgate, up Somerset Road at last and the slopes flattened and the sky lightened and turned blotchy like yesterday's porridge and a cold dark wind came across a boundless open space and numbed the intent of the Adventurers as they peered from beneath the warm canvas. The crisp air lined their lungs with ice, chilling their blood at the heart. Sam hesitated. One last road to cross—Parkside. He shook his head and neighed valiantly and went out into the green and black stillness that was Rumbledom.
Bingo guided the horse and cart to a large clump of trees not far advanced into the wilderness. The wintry light of morning glinted without friendliness on a sheet of water nearby. "Bluegate Gravel Pit, Disused," said the map.
"We'll camp by the water's edge," said Knocker to Bingo, "then at least we can't be attacked from the rear, and we can post lookouts along the line of trees."
"There's no one about," said Bingo, "it doesn't look like we've been spotted. If we make it to those trees, we'll be safe."
Sam pulled them towards the copse. The cart lurched and jolted and the Borribles, who were standing now, had to hang on with all their strength to avoid being thrown out under the wheels. They looked keenly in every direction to see if there was any sign of their enemies, but not a bird flew overhead and not a dog hunted through the clumps of grass, even on the horizon where the grey sky was brightening.
"Come on, Sam, my old deario," cried Bingo in a tired voice, "nearly there, ain't it? Then we'll rest and eat all day, my little darling."
Sam dragged the cart deep into the copse and halted. His coat was steaming and his legs were trembling after the long uphill flight from Engadine. Bingo pulled on the brake and the Adventurers leapt to the ground. They spread out in all directions to search through the undergrowth, making certain that there were no Rumbles in hiding or, even more dangerous, that there was no entrance here to a Burrow, one of those large underground warrens where Rumbles live in security and comfort.
They found no trace of the enemy and so Napoleon and Vulge prised Bingo up and away from the shoulders of Stonks and stood him on the ground. Bingo stretched and rubbed his legs. "What an empty and gloomy old dump Rumbledom is," he said. "What's on the other side?"
"Not much," said Knocker. "There's no more London, just countryside with separate houses, funny."
"And they lives down below," whispered Vulge, pointing downwards, "right under our very feet, eh?"
"That's right," said Orococco. "They lives in Burrows and we lives in Boroughs. That's the difference!"
"Hey, you lot," called out Napoleon, "come over here and help me with poor old Stonks. He's gone all stiff-solid, carrying Bingo all this way; he's got cramp in all his muscles. Poor sod can't move."
The Borribles gathered round and inspected their rigid companion.
"Don't worry," he said, hardly able to move his mouth, "I'm all right, honest. Keep your eyes open 'stead of fussing about me; they might creep up on you."
"Chalotte and me will go on watch," said Sydney, and the two girls went to the edge of the copse to stare across the rolling fields.
The others lifted Stonks gently from the cart. He came off the seat as stiff as an armchair. They laid him on the grass on his side but his body remained in the sitting position.
"Just give me a rub down." He tried to laugh. "I'll soon be as good as new."
They took turns in rubbing Stonks hard on his legs, arms and back, and when his muscles were loosened a little they covered him with sleeping bags to keep him warm. Then they settled down for a council of war.
No noise came across the open spaces of Rumbledom but traffic whined along Parkside now as people began to make their way to work. Only one thing was moving near them in the dreary landscape, the cool black steam that rose from the surface of the gravel pit.
It was easy to decide what they needed at that moment—food and rest. They opened their haversacks and made a feast of the food they had brought from Dewdrop's house. There were tins of beans, loaves of sliced bread, packets of biscuits, tins of steak-and-kidney pie, rice pudding, slabs of chocolate, both milk and plain, with nuts and raisins. There was cheese and liver-sausage and bottles of Guinness and cans of ale. Dewdrop and Erbie had lived well and it was a complete banquet, coming as it did after the weeks of privation in the cellars of Engadine.
Then, with two of their number constantly on watch, they slept all morning. In the afternoon they just dozed or sat chatting lazily to one another, firing their catapults at the water as they talked. Some fell asleep again, to wake up later and join in the conversation. They talked about the Rumbles, their adventures so far, and of the training that Knocker and Dodger had given them and would they ever, all of them, get home safe and sound.
"They like staying in the warm," said Knocker of the Rumbles. "It is well into winter now, so they'll spend most of their time in the Burrows. We've been so long in coming that it's probable that they've forgotten about us and won't have many lookout patrols on the go. On the other hand they are no fools and they're sly. They may have seen us already, they may be on the other side of the horizon, gathering their forces."
"Has anyone, apart from a Rumble that is, ever seen the inside of a Burrow?" asked Chalotte.
"No," said Knocker, "but according to Spiff, who knows more about them than any other Borrible, you want to forget the idea of it being a cosy little Burrow, it's really a defensive Bunker, very luxurious though, carpeted, pictures on the wall, separate rooms, beds, blankets and bathrooms, centrally-heated, of course, work-shops. They want for nothing and they eat well, though you couldn't eat what they eat, funny stuff, make you sick, it would. The Bunkers are complicated, designed like a spider's web, strong, lots of cement. Rumbles, they know every inch of it. Some of you will get lost, be set on in a cul-de-sac. But remember the place in the middle to which all the tunnels lead, it's called the Central. When you get in the Bunker you'll be on your own, each one of you has got to do for your namesake and then hop it. You know what they look like, you did that in training."
"We get in, get our target, and then get out," said Sydney.
"That's it," answered Knocker. "We'll rendezvous back here. If anyone is captured, or wounded, or killed, the others do not wait. The survivors take the horse and cart and they go, night or day. There may be thousands of Rumbles after us and they can fight, too. They could easily over-run us and massacre us by sheer weight of numbers."
"I wish I knew what they were up to," said Vulge, standing up and firing his catapult at a plastic icecream cup floating on the gravel pit and sinking it with his first stone. "It's too damn quiet!"
Just then Orococco pushed his head through the trees. "There's a sweet little Rumble comin' this way, sniffin' with his snout and poking about in the grass with a nail on the end of a long stick! I could exterminate the little nuisance from about fifty yards."
"Oh, boy," said Vulge, slipping his bandolier over his shoulder, "if he's alone let's nobble him and ask him a few questions, see what his mates are up to."
Napoleon who had been asleep rolled over and said lazily, "Yeah, someone go and bring the little feller in."
"Don't harm him," said Knocker to Orococco. "We want him alive. Remember, they talk to children. If he doesn't suss you as a Borrible, tell him you've got something you want him to see, here in the trees."
"That might make him run a mile," joked Orococco flashing his teeth.
"Well, in that case, clout him across the head and drag him in by his feet," said Napoleon and went back to sleep.
Those who were awake sprang up and ran through the bushes till they reached the perimeter of the copse. Across the windswept grass, picking his way slowly through the gorse bushes, they saw the Rumble. He was sniffing about cautiously and a great deal of the time he flicked his eyes around as if fearing attack or discovery. Orococco was already some distance away, skipping, affecting aimless pleasure.
"He's pretending to be a normal," said Knocker, and they all watched.
Orococco kept the gorse bushes between him and the Rumble for as long as he could but eventually the Rumble noticed him. The Rumble stopped and looked about with more nervous twists of the head. But he saw no one, only Orococco hopping happily along like a child playing truant from school. The Rumble sank behind a small gorse bush till only its snout protruded. Orococco pretended that he'd seen nothing and made as if to skip by, but then he stopped and the watchers saw him wave at the Rumble who came out from behind the bushes and stepped hesitantly towards the black Borrible.
Orococco clapped his hands and talked for a while; he pointed towards the copse where his companions were hidden, then he waved again at the Rumble and skipped on.
"Wonder if it'll work?" said Vulge.
"Depends what he told him," said Chalotte.
The Rumble stood where he was for several minutes waiting for Orococco to disappear over the horizon. As soon as he thought he was alone he turned and began to run towards the Borribles.
"Verdammt, it has worked," cried Adolf, rubbing his hands.
"Spread out," said Knocker. "Get behind a tree or something and when the little bleeder comes by, jump him."
From their hiding places the Borribles watched the approach of the solitary Rumble. The animal's snout pulsated with suspicion, the small red eyes darted from right to left, probing, trying to see beyond the trees. It raised its Rumble-stick, it could smell something wrong but its greed had been greatly aroused by Orococco's tale. The padded feet brought it nearer and nearer. At the edge of the trees it halted and turned to look over the wild downs. Nothing moved on the surface of the countryside. The Rumble shifted the bag that was thrown across his shoulder, took a deep breath through its snout and plunged into the copse. It did not plunge very far. As it passed between two trees Vulge and Torreycanyon rose from the matted undergrowth like two fast-growing man-eating plants, one before and one behind the surprised Rumble.
"Aaaaagh," it squealed, the sound beginning loudly but fading away to a weak and disjointed whimper.
"Aaaaagh," imitated Vulge. Then he grabbed the Rumble by the scruff of its fur and shook it as if trying to dislocate every bone in its body. "You mouldy old eiderdown, we've come a long way to have a chat with you. Gone through endless dangers to engage you in fruitful converse, and all you can do is go 'Aaaaagh'."
"Yeah," joined in Torreycanyon, slapping the animal gently across the snout, "you're a rat." He did not have the same inventive vocabulary that Vulge was blessed with.
The animal drew itself up. "I'm not a wat," it said, "I'm a Wumble."
"And I'm Towweycanyon, a howwible Bowwible," said Torreycanyon and he seized the Rumble-stick. "Look at this," he said to Vulge, "a very nasty tool."
"Yeah," agreed the Stepney Borrible, "and there's thousands of Rumbles out there and they've all got one. Come on, let's get back to the clearing."
They held the prisoner by his arms and dragged him back to the middle of the trees where the others soon gathered. They sat the Rumble down by the cart and tied him to one of the wheels.
"Oh, my goodness," said the Rumble, looking nervously around, "I weally can smell a horse. You can't wealise how dweadful they are."
"Isn't it marvellous how they can't talk properly?" said Vulge, giving the ropes a really good pull and a tug to make sure the prisoner couldn't escape.
The Borribles sat round the prisoner in a semicircle and even those who had been dozing woke up and came over towards the cart to examine the captive.
"Right," said Bingo cheerfully to the Rumble, "we're going to ask you some interesting questions, and you're going to give us some interesting answers. If you don't keep us amused, if we should get in the slightest bit bored, I shall give you to Sam to eat. He likes hay."
"Sam's the horse," said Chalotte in a kindly, menacing way.
"Aaaaagh," groaned the Rumble, weakly.
"Well that's bloody boring for a start," said Vulge. "If he's going to say nothing but 'Aaaaagh' all the time, we might as well give him to Sam straight away."
Sam the horse, hearing his name mentioned so often, ambled across to the group of Borribles and stood contentedly looking over their shoulders, munching. He looked at the furred creature with a certain amount of appetite, for it is a fact that horses enjoy eating the occasional Rumble, finding that they taste like well-matured hay, good and sweet and nourishing. The Rumble shrank back in his bonds. Though normally quite courageous, understandably enough neither he, nor any of his kind, could bear the sight or smell of a horse.
"Don't let him near me," he shrieked. "I'll talk, I'll tell you evewything, only don't let him touch me."
Vulge looked round the half-circle of his friends. "Well," he said, "at least that's better than 'Aaaaagh'."
"How many Rumbles in your Bunker?" asked Torreycanyon.
A thin yellow tongue appeared briefly along the slit in the Rumble's snout. "There's hundweds, certainly, maybe more, but we're only one Bunker, there are hundweds of those too, all interconnected."
"And the High Command, the eight top names, where are they?" asked Sydney, her voice cool.
"You know about the Eight?" asked the Rumble, looking at them with a growing terror. "Then you're not ordinawy childwen, you're . . ."
"That's wight, my old china," scoffed Vulge, "we're howwible Bowwibles. You want to listen when we talk to you."
The questioning went on all through the afternoon, with the Rumble gradually realising that this was the Great Rumble Hunt that had been promised.
The Borribles found out many things. The Rumble that Knocker and Lightfinger had captured all that time ago had returned alive to Rumbledom country. His story had struck fear and dismay into the hearts of all Rumbles, young and old, male and female. But that fear had hardened into anger, and the dismay had crystallised into resolution and the Rumbles had looked about them.
At first the High Command, following the general mood, had over-reacted, conscripting all their able-bodied animals into the Warrior Corps. Training had been intensive and Rumble scouts had been sent out regularly as far as Southfields and even to Wandsworth Common. Some had been settled in a continuous line along the railway line over which it was thought the Borrible force would be obliged to advance, for the Rumbles had expected a mass invasion. This impression had been conveyed to them by Timbucktoo, the Rumble that Knocker had treated so roughly in Battersea Park. He had led his compatriots to believe that a vast horde of Borribles was on the march and that all of Borrible London was in a state of war.
But the weeks had gone by and there had been no sign of the enemy. The Borrible threat receded in the mind of the ordinary Rumble. The scouts deserted their posts and returned to the life of comfort and ease to which, to tell the truth, they were well used. Patrols still went out to Southfields and such, but Rumbles dislike the streets as much as Borribles hate the countryside and so the patrols had become less frequent and more inefficient. Most Rumbles completely forgot the menace of the Great Rumble Hunt, others suggested that it had only been a vain threat made in anger, one that the Borribles could never sustain. "Anyway," thought the average Rumble, if he thought about it at all, "those Borribles are mean snivelling little dirty things, they could never make the long and perilous journey to Rumbledom, they don't possess the wherewithal, the knowledge, the brains. They couldn't mount such an expedition with their resources. They live in rotten little streets and barely scrape a living. They have enough to do to stay alive. No," they argued, "the vast domain of Rumbledom, on top of the great hill, on top of the world almost, is safe."
But the Rumble High Command did not see the problem in quite the same way. They had been threatened, and though the threat might only be an idea as yet, it was an idea of their overthrow and a great danger lurked in it. It was a concept that could lead only to disaster if nothing was done. Furthermore, they felt, they had a perfect right to go wherever they wished, beholden to no one, and that right must be defended.
So the High Command had made a plan, emanating from their chief and dictator, Vulgarian. They must strike before they were struck; destroy the Borribles of Battersea before their idea could take root and spread. A large Rumble force of crack regiments would be equipped for a night attack on Battersea High Street, to seek out and destroy any Borribles they found and obliterate the Borrible war-machine that Timbucktoo had assured them was being prepared.
Warriors had been put into special training and were ready to undertake the long journey. They had not the slightest intention of marching those many miles; they already had one motor-car and only awaited the delivery of others before setting out. They intended to strike with speed and in several places at once, causing as much panic and destruction amongst the Borrible population as possible.
In addition to such offensive measures, the Rumbles had seen to their own defences and reviewed the whole situation. There were only two entrances to the main bunker, and both were guarded day and night. Rumbles it was said never let go of anything, and they would hang on to Rumbledom for grim death. What had never occurred to them was that a tiny force of chosen Borribles would infiltrate their territory and attempt to assassinate the High Command and so leave the Rumbles leaderless and ineffective. Thus the Adventurers found that the element of surprise was with them; no one knew of their arrival. That was the good news; the bad news they had already known: they were hopelessly outnumbered and retreat, even if they succeeded in their task, would be impossible.
When the Borribles were satisfied with their interrogation they moved away from their prisoner so they could talk without being overheard. They leant against the trees and discussed matters, scanning the horizon at the same time.
"Well," said Bingo, "how are we going to play it?"
"What our friend forgot to mention," said Knocker, "is that although there are only two entrances to the Bunker, there is in fact a ventilation shaft that comes out above the kitchens. It's in one of the books. I think that's the way we—I mean you—should go in."
"Wait a minute," interrupted Stonks. "My target is the doorkeeper. I'll have to go in through the door, otherwise I might not find him."
"I've got an idea," cried Torreycanyon. "We can make a diversionary attack on both doors, just a couple of us, and the main body can get in through the ventilator."
"Here comes 'Rococco," said Stonks, "running."
"What a mover," said Sydney. "I hope it's not bad news."
Orococco stopped a few yards from the copse, turning to make sure no one was watching before he slipped into the trees.
"Hello," he panted, "everything okay?"
"We're just talking about how to attack," said Napoleon. "Any trouble?"
"Nah," answered the Tooting Borrible, "I've just been for a little runaround, see what I could see. Did you get the Rumble I sent you?"
"Not half," said the Wendle. "What did you find out?"
"Well, I don't think they know we're here," said Orococco. "I saw quite a few of them wandering about with those lance things of theirs, Rumble-sticks, but they didn't look worried, just stooging up and down. I found the two entrances to the place, and I found out where the ventilation comes out, on top of a hill. It will be a piece of duff."
Napoleon turned from listening to the Totter and looked at Knocker, suspicious again. "And what will you be up to during the attack, eh?"
"Adolf and me will help cause as much confusion as possible," answered Knocker, without looking at the Wendle.
"Not half, verdammt, " agreed the German.
After a little more discussion Torreycanyon's plan was adopted unanimously and the Adventurers went back to the clearing. There, a surprise awaited them. The Rumble had disappeared, even the ropes that had bound him were gone.
"Who tied him up then?" Napoleon shouted at Vulge, anger tightening his face.
Vulge looked guilty. "I made sure he couldn't get free." He glanced at the others. "Really I did."
"Bloody well looks like it, don't it?" said Napoleon. "If he gets back to his Bunker we've had it."
"Don't panic," giggled Sydney, "look at Sam."
The horse was lying down at one side of the clearing with a stupidly contented expression on his long face. From his mouth dangled a little frayed end of rope; it swung gently with the movement of his champing jaws.
"Well, I'll be double verdammted, " cried Adolf. "Sam's eaten him," and he hooted.
"Would you Adam-and-Eve it?" said Stonks incredulously. "So he has, the sly old rogue."
"That makes one Rumble the less," said Napoleon practically. "I wondered what we were going to do with him."
Sam gave a neigh of pleasure and rolled over on his side, stuck out his legs and promptly went into a deep sleep.
"That's just what I'm going to do, man," said Orococco, "get something to eat and then have a good snooze. After all, tonight's the night, eh?"
That seemed like a good idea to everybody and after a light snack they curled up in their sleeping bags. Knocker, Adolf and Chalotte took the first watch of two hours, two hours to gaze across the chilly greeny-grey expanses of inhospitable Rumbledom.
It was deep winter now and high up on this hill the air was sharp-edged and brittle. "No wonder those Rumbles have fur coats," thought Knocker, as he watched and shivered. Nothing moved out there in the vastness, nothing except a few adults taking dogs for walks or children racing along on bicycles. It was strange, he reflected, how this raid was going to take place and no adults, no policemen would ever know about it—but then there was a lot happened that they never knew about and didn't want to know about, either.
Chalotte came and leaned against a tree nearby. She didn't look at Knocker at first, but kept watch over the green land where the advancing mist of dusk was making it difficult to distinguish between trees and gorse bushes, pathways and grass.
"It's going to be dangerous, isn't it," she said. It wasn't a question.
"We always knew some of us wouldn't survive," answered Knocker.
"I sometimes think," said Chalotte, "that we're not really meant for this kind of Adventure. It would be nice to go back to being just a Borrible, living in our nice broken-down houses. You know the proverb 'Fruit of the barrow is enough for a Borrible'. I mean this Adventure has turned out to be far beyond what we normally do. It's suicide."
"Wait a minute," protested Knocker, surprised. "This is the greatest Adventure we're ever likely to hear of, let alone go on."
"Hmmmm." She sounded unconvinced. "You ought to make it clear to the others that by this time tomorrow they're likely to be dead. Who wants to die for a name? That was never Borrible."
"Fruit of the barrow may be all right, but we've got to have Adventures, too. Look, if you hadn't come on this one you wouldn't have seen Dewdrop and Erbie and learned what happens to us when we get caught. We'd heard about it but now we've seen it, we know."
"Yes, but supposing Spiff got it all wrong, supposing those Rumbles just came down on a spree, just to visit the Park, not take over all of Battersea, like he said. What then, eh? It would be silly, just them scared of us and us scared of them."
"Oh, that's rubbish," said Knocker laughing coldly. "Old Spiff don't make bloomers like that, he just don't. He has studied the Rumbles for years, he knows them inside out. I mean, do you think the Wendles don't know what they're up against? Flinthead is Flinthead because of the Rumbles, it's all down to them . . . obviously."
"You admire Spiff too much," said Chalotte. "The more I see of expeditions the more I think of getting back to where we belong. I mean how important is a name? You've got one and yet you're going on a suicide mission for another." She shook her head, glanced at Knocker, and then said what was really on her mind. "There's something else, isn't there? Something secret, that you know, and Spiff knows. Ordinary expeditions are fine adventures and funny, but this one is making us like the Wendles. That can't be good, can it? The things we do might look right now but they could turn out wrong in the end."
Knocker became stern; he couldn't manage long and complicated arguments. "You and Sydney have really pulled your weight, all along. I didn't believe you could at the beginning, but you have. Are you going to spoil it all now by being scared?"
Chalotte didn't become angry, in fact she smiled. "I told you at the start we'd be as good as anyone else. As for scared, well, we're all scared of something. You're scared that you won't get another name, and another after that." And she placed her hand ever so lightly on his and took it away again.
Knocker blushed and turned his head to look at her but she was gone through the trees back to her lookout post. Over the sunless fields of Rumbledom the mist lay in pools and there was not a soul to be seen. Soon it would be dark; he would be glad when it started.
The Borribles watched and slept by turns through the evening of that day but by midnight they could rest no more, so they roused themselves for one last meal together. They crowded under the cart and held their feast by the light of torches tied to the spokes of the cartwheels. They were subdued, but Adolf told them of his travels and how he had got his names, how this was the best adventure he had ever known and how happy and glad he was to be with such a band. He slapped Napoleon on the back and said he "wasn't bad for a Wendle," and even Napoleon had to laugh at that and he gave the German another can of Dewdrop's Guinness.
At the blackest part of the night they began to prepare themselves. They reloaded their double bandoliers with the choicest stones and they replaced the used rubbers of their catapults. Adolf and Knocker even took with them the spare catapults they had used for their escape from Dewdrop's house. They removed all shiny things from their jackets and they tucked their trousers into their socks and tied the laces of their combat boots tightly and well so that nothing could get caught on nails and doors and things. They put Sam back between the shafts and loaded their haversacks onto the cart so they should be ready to run for it if they ever managed to get clear of the Bunker. When all was done they shovelled up a huge pile of stones from the gravelly shore of the lake and threw them into the cart as well. If they had to make a running retreat it would be an advantage to have a good supply of ammunition with them. At the very last, Knocker took a tin from his pocket, opened it, and began smearing his face with the contents. It was black greasepaint, used so that his white skin would not be spied by the enemy in the frosty starlight. Orococco laughed as the others followed suit.
"Man, oh man, I've seen everything now. If we has a daylight attack, will you fellas get me some white paint so my face don't stick out?"
His friends, feeling a little foolish, told him to "Shaddup", but he only laughed again, and at odd moments through the night he chuckled to himself whenever he saw the others with their black faces.
When they were ready to leave they stood together and very tough and determined they looked. One by one they went to the horse and patted him and asked him to be patient, standing in the traces like that, and Sam neighed like a war-charger and stamped a hoof. Then they synchronised their watches and took a compass bearing on the copse and finally, without a light to guide them, they moved off in single file. Orococco led them out, for as he said, not only did he know the way, but he was still the blackest of them all.