However, they went on through a jungle of artichokes and through an orchard of gnarled apple trees past a mildewed summer-house, until they reached a serpentine path between privet bushes, strongly scented in the dampness all around. “Shall we?” murmured Hands doubtfully. “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 bumped down a sheer ten-feet of loose earth. “I’m getting jolly bumped. Look out, Hands, you kicked my neck, you ass.” “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 bumps and jolts and the pushing 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 unassailable. 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.