“Yes, but the sun’s behind all these trees and you can’t hear anything, but only us walking,” whispered Michael.
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.”