“Get out of this!”
Fear was in his heart; he was compelled afterwards to admit it. He could only reply very feebly:
“Why?”
The eldest of the party, glaring, replied:
“If you don’t, we’ll make you.” Then: “This is ours here.”
Hamlet was now quivering all over, and Jeremy was afraid lest he should make a dash for the boulders. He therefore climbed on to his feet, holding Hamlet’s collar with his hand, and, smiling, answered:
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ve only just come.”
“Well, get out, then,” was the only reply.
What fascinated him like a dream was the way that the faces did not move nor more body reveal itself. Painted against the blue sky, they might have been, ferocious stares and all. There was nothing more to be done. He beat an inglorious retreat, not, indeed, running, but walking with what dignity he could summon, Hamlet at his side uttering noises like a kettle on the boil.