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?"