“I know—I’d discover America.”
They thought no more about it, and next day went gaily a-climbing a local mountain. But Tom, who was a poor climber, lagged behind his companions, and began to slip. Clawing frantically at the rough rock over the edge of the bluff he went, and fell to the bottom with a crash.
When he opened his eyes his head ached horribly. Putting up his hand he found his scalp clotted with blood. The heavy mist shut off everything but a small circle all round him. As he lay wondering what had become of his companions, suddenly he became aware of strange people regarding him. Gradually they came nearer and he saw that they were clad in skins.
Well, they take him prisoner and carry him off to their village, where their head-man questions him in an uncouth dialect. Then they send for a sage who also questions him, and is much mystified at his replies. “This wise greybeard,” thinks Tom, “seems to know less than an average school-boy.”
Then comes the news that two more of the strange creatures have been captured. Once again the trio are united.
“It’s a rum go,” said Dick. “Seems we’ve slipped back a thousand years.”
“What particular period of history have we climbed off at?” demanded Harry.
“It looks to me,” said Tom, “as if we were in Saxon England, just before the Norman Invasion. From what the old gentleman tells me Harold is the big chief.”
“What will we do?”
“Seems to me we’ll be all right. With a thousand years or so of experience ahead of those fellows we ought to become great men in this land. We were mighty small fry in old London. I wish I was an engineer, I’d invent gunpowder or something.”