"Well, I'll be hanged!" said the young man in the towel, dodging the blows as well as he could. "What in Heaven's name are you? Ancient Briton? Bit of the Stone Age?" "Le' me go or I'll kill you," howled the prisoner. "No, don't! You're strong: be merciful. Hello!" as a fresh attack took him in the rear, and his bare back resounded to the blows of a weapon similar to the one that was pounding his arm. "You young savages! Two to one, and an unarmed man!" He loosed the ankle and made a quick dive at the brown thrashing arm, and, having secured it, lifted the wriggling youngster and tucked him under his arm like a parcel. Then, in spite of the struggles of his prisoner, he turned on the new-comer and presently held him captive in similar fashion. They bit and tore and wriggled like a pair of little tiger-cats, but the arms that held them were strong ones if the face above was thin and worn and gentle. "Stop it!" He knocked their heads together, and squeezed the slippery little bodies under his arms till the breath was nearly out of them, and took advantage of the moment of gasping quiescence to ask, "Will you be quiet if I let you down?" They intimated in jerks that they would be quiet. "Drop those drumsticks, then." First one, then the other weapon dropped into the sand. He put his foot on them and stood the boys on their feet. "Drumsticks!" snorted one, his sandy little nose all a-quiver. "Well, neither am I a drum," said their captor good-humouredly. "Now what's the meaning of all this? Who are you? Or what are you?" They were fine sturdy little fellows, of ten or eleven, he judged, their skins tanned brown and coated with dry sand, quick dark eyes and dark flushed faces all aglow still with the light of battle. They stood panting before him, no whit abashed either by their defeat or their lack of clothing. He saw their eyes settle longingly on the clubs under his feet. He stooped and picked them up, and the dark eyes followed them anxiously. "Promise not to use them on me and I'll give them back to you." The brown hands reached out eagerly, and he handed the weapons over. "Now sit down and tell me all about it." And he sat down himself in the sand. He saw them glance towards the mouth of their retreat, and shook his head. "You can't manage it. I'd have you out before you were half way in. You're prisoners of war on parole. Now then, who are you?" "Carr'ns." "Carr'ns, are you? Well, you look it, whatever it means. Do you live in that hole?" "Sometimes." "Never wear any clothes?" "Sometimes." "I see. Much jollier without, isn't it? But, you see, I can't go home like this. So perhaps you won't mind telling me why you stole my things and where they are?" "Carr'ns don't steal," jerked one. "Carr'ns only take things," jerked the other. "I see. It's a fine point, but it comes to much the same thing unless you return what you take. So perhaps you'll be so good as to turn up my things. Where are they?"