turning back. I think it's rotten to
turn back. Don't you? Hullo!" he cried. "Look here, Hands. Here's a
regular sort of tunnel going down hill. It's quite steep."

In a moment Hands and Michael were half sliding, half climbing down a
cliff. The lower they went, the faster they travelled and soon they were
sliding all the way, because they had to guard their faces against the
brambles that twined above them.

"Good Lord!" gasped Michael, as he bumped down a sheer ten-feet of loose
earth. "I'm getting jolly bumped. Look out, Hands, you kicked my neck,
you ass."

"I can't help it," gasped Hands. "I'm absolutely slipping, and if I try
to catch hold, I scratch myself."

They were sliding so fast that the only thing to do was to laugh and
give way. So, with shouts and laughter and bumps and jolts and the
pushing of loose stones and earth before them, Michael and Hands came
with a run to the bottom of the cliff and landed at last on soft
sea-sand.

"By gum," said Michael, "we're right on the beach. What a rag!"

The two boys looked back to the scene of their descent. It was a high
cliff covered with shrubs and brambles, apparently unassailable. Before
them was the sea, pale blue and gold, and to the right and to the left
were the flat lonely sands. They ran, shouting with excitement, towards
the rippling tide. The sand-hoppers buzzed about their ankles: Hands
tripped over a jelly-fish and fell into several others: sea-gulls
swooped above them, crying continually.

"It's like Robinson Crusoe," Michael declared.

He was mad with the exhilaration of possession. He owned these sands.

"Oh, young Hands fell down on the sands," he cried, bursting into
uncontrollable laughter at the absurdity of the rhyme. Then he found
razor-shells and waved his arms triumphantly. He found, too,
wine-stained shells and rosy shells and great purple mussels. He and
Hands took off their shoes and stockings and ran through the limpid
water that sparkled with gold and tempted them to wade for ever ankle
deep. They reached a broken mass of rock which would obviously be
surrounded by water at high tide; they clambered up to the summit and
found there grass and rabbits' holes.

"It's a real island," said Michael. "It is! I say, Hands, this is our
island. We discovered it. Bags I, we keep it."

"Don't let's get caught by the tide," suggested cautious Hands.

"All right, you funk," jeered Michael.

They came back to the level sands and wande