Dazedly, as if in a dream, the Outlaws went to where he pointed. They didn’t know what else to do. The situation seemed to have got entirely out of hand. It seemed best to follow the line of least resistance and to give themselves away as little as possible. They stood in a dejected group in front of the ferocious man and the ferocious man began to talk. He talked about such things as strata and igneous rock and neolithic and eolithic and paloælithic and stratigraphical and Pithecanthropus erectus and other things of which the Outlaws had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. He asked them questions and got angry because they didn’t know the answers. He asked them what he’d said about things and got angry because they’d forgotten. He strode about the hill-top pointing out rocks with his stick and talking about them in a loud, ferocious voice. He made them follow him wherever he went, and got angry because they didn’t follow nimbly enough. So terrifying was he that they daren’t even try to run away. It was like a nightmare. It was far worse than Geometry. And it seemed to last for hours and hours and hours. Actually it lasted an hour. At the end the man became more angry than ever, said that it was an insult to have asked him to come over to address four half-witted gutter-snipes and muttering ferociously stalked off again down the hillside.
The Outlaws sat down weakly on the ground around the little heap of black twigs and dead leaves which marked the scene of William’s failure as a fire-maker and held their heads.
“Crumbs!” moaned William, and Ginger mournfully echoed, “Crumbs!”
“Well, anyway, he’s gone,” said Henry trying to look on the bright side.
But it wasn’t really easy to look on the bright side. The Outlaws were feeling very hungry and there wasn’t anything to eat. Ringers’ Hill had lost its charm. They’d had a rotten time there—not a bit the sort of time they’d always imagined Outlaws having. And the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud. It was cold and dark. They were hungry and fed up.
“Wonder what time it is,” said Henry casually.
As if in answer the clock of the village church struck in the valley, One—Two—Three—Four—Five. Five o’clock. Tea-time. Into each mind flashed a picture of a cheerful dining-room with a table laid for tea.
“Well,” said William with an unconvincing attempt at cheerfulness, “we’d better be getting something to eat. We might have had a rabbit if Henry’d caught one. Let’s have a go at the blackberries.”
“There aren’t any ripe ones,” said Douglas, “and the others make you feel awful inside after you’ve eaten a few.”
Then suddenly to their secret relief Henry rose and said bluntly, “I want my tea and I’m sick of being an Outlaw. I’m going home.”