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He gave me a don’t-interrupt-my-important-business look, which I completely ignored. I clung to his arm tenaciously. ‘Why not, Mr Linton?’
‘Because he hasn't got a gun in his hand, Sir!’
‘He might be going for one, Mr Linton.’
‘Then wait until he does, Sir. You can’t shoot an unarmed man!’
‘That, Mr Linton, is usually the wiser and more effective policy.’
‘Ahoy there,’ the man called, waving genially in our direction. ‘Caught up to me and my little ship on wheels, have you? Well, I ain’t the fastest, I got to admit that.’
‘See? He didn’t want to shoot! He just wanted to wave at us.’
‘For now, Mr Linton.’
Suddenly, the old soldier let go of the end of the see-saw with which he had been pushing along his cart and jumped off.
‘I’m going to take a little rest and have my supper,’ he announced, appearing perfectly content to let the draisine stand where it was. ‘Want to join me?’
I looked at Mr Ambrose.
‘Don’t even think about saying yes, Mr Linton,’ he hissed. ‘We’re being chased by a whole army of soldiers! We don't have time for supper!’
‘I wasn’t going to say yes, Sir,’ I snapped back, miffed. ‘I was going to ask how we'll get past him without arousing suspicion! He’s blocking the way!’
‘I had noticed as much, Mr Linton. Do you still object to my shooting him?’
‘Yes!’
M
r Ambrose gnashed his teeth in silence, and didn’t answer. It was obvious that of all the dangers that we could encounter on our wild chase for survival, he hadn’t factored in a jolly old fellow asking us to stop for supper. Well, neither had I, to be perfectly honest. You just didn’t reckon with those kinds of things when you were hunted by a horde of evil villains. Everybody was supposed to be chasing after you in a panic, not cheerfully unpacking sausages and a bottle of ale.
The white-bearded fellow pulled out a second bottle from the sack slung over his back and held it out to us. We were only a few yards away from him now, and our draisine slowly came to a halt.
‘Want to try it? It’s a damn fine brew, if I do say so myself. The name’s Ben, by the way.’
‘No!’ Mr Ambrose bit out, jumping off the draisine and striding towards the old man.
‘I assure you, it is. My mother picked it out. Father was never the creative one, so she picked all our names. Ben for me, and Tom and Elsie for my-’
‘I meant,’ Mr Ambrose said, enunciating each arctic syllable, ‘no thank you, I do not wish to partake of your alcoholic drink. And neither does my friend. Will you be so kind as to move your mine cart out of the way, so we can continue? We have schedule to keep.’
‘Oh, today’s youth!’ Old Ben sighed and took a large swig of ale. ‘Always in a hurry, always in a hurry. You got to take a breath, youngsters, and learn how to relax. All this panicking will kill you before you get old, you know.’
‘Actually,’ I said, throwing an anxious glance over my shoulder, ‘we’re trying to avoid getting killed before we’re old.’
Old Ben didn’t seem to hear that. He was busy carving up a sausage, holding one slice out to Mr Ambrose, who looked down at it as if it were a rotten rat’s carcass.
‘I really must insist, Sir, that you-’ he began.
‘There they are!’
The shout cut him off abruptly and made us all look back up the hill, from where we had come. There was a yelp from old Ben, who had probably cut his finger instead of the sausage. But I didn’t pay attention, nor did Mr Ambrose. We only had eyes for the draisine with all three soldiers on board, racing downhill at a dangerous tempo.
Dangerous for them, and for us.
Without wasting another word, Mr Ambrose stepped up beside old Ben’s draisine and heaved. With a strangled groan, half from his throat, half from the protesting metal and wood, the vehicle keeled over, and everything that had been inside toppled onto the tunnel floor.
