It was steep as the roof of a house. Down he pelted, headlong, his legs attempting to catch up his falling body. In vain: head over heels, rolling, bumping, tumbling, a ripple of mocking laughter pursuing him.
There was no danger, he knew. The bottom of the coombe was flat as a floor, the cliff running athwart it a quarter of a mile away.
At last he fetched up, battered and breathless.
Above him he could see the figure of the Gentleman tiny against the sky.
"Forgive me, Little Chap," came a far voice. "I am in a hole, and have to get out as best I can. Il faut que je file. Here is your little prodder."
His arm swung. Something flashed in the sky, fell, always flashing, and stuck in the hillside above him, quivering there.
It was the boy's dirk.