Just before eight o’clock, after a glorious morning ride through a hilly country, we came to a pretty-looking village with the houses covered in with slabs of stone instead of slates or tiles or thatch, and the soft grey, and the yellow and green lichen and moss seemed to make the place quaint and wonderfully attractive to me; but I was not allowed to sit thinking about the beauty of the place, for Ike began to tell me of the plan of our campaign.
“Yon’s the sand-hill,” he said, pointing with his whip as he drew up at a little inn. “We’ll order some braxfass here; then while they’re briling the bacon we’ll take the cart up to the pit and leave it, and bring the horse back to stop in the stable till we want him again.”
The order was given, and then we had a slow climb up a long hill to where, right at the top, the road had been cut straight through, leaving an embankment, forty or fifty feet high, on each side, while, for generations past, the sand had been dug away till the embankments were some distance back from the road.
“Just like being on the sea-shore,” said Ike. “I see the ocean once. Linkyshire cost. All sand like this. Rum place, ain’t it?”
“I think it’s beautiful,” I said as the cart was drawn over the yielding sand, the horse’s hoofs and the wheels sinking in deep, while quite a cliff, crowned with dark fir-trees, towered above our heads. The face of the sandy cliff was scored with furrows where the water had run down, and here it was reddish, there yellow or cream colour, and then dazzlingly white, while just below the top it was honey-combed with holes.
“San’-martins’ nesties,” said Ike, pointing with his whip. “There’s clouds of ’em sometimes. There they go.”
He pointed to the pretty white-breasted birds as they darted here and there, and on we still went, jolting up and down in the sandy bottom, where there was only a faint track, till we were opposite to a series of cavern-like holes and the sand cliff towered up with pine-trees here and there half-way down where the sand had given way or been undermined, and they had glided down a quarter—half—three parts of the distance. In short, it was a lovely, romantic spot, with a view over the pleasant land of Surrey on our right, and on our left a cliff of beautiful salmon-coloured sand, side by side with one that was quite white.
“You won’t get better sand than that nowheres,” said Ike, standing up and getting out of the cart, an example I followed. “Here we’ll pitch, Mars Grant, and—”
Quickly and silently, as he gave me a comical look, he unhitched a chain or two, unbuckled the belly-band, and let the shafts fly up.
The result was that Shock’s head went bang against the tail-board, and then his legs went over it, and he came out with a curious somersault, and stared about only half awake, and covered with straw and sacks.