beat faster: if she lost we were doomed, but on the other hand . . . sword-fight. Cool. 3 But it turned out there was to be no fight for she now yelled, ‘Run! Everyone, run!’
With a final jab at the headmaster, the servant spun round and ran for the door.
‘But my presents!’ cried Harry.
‘Leave them!’
‘And my anvil!’ cried Pippa.
‘Leave it!’
‘Never!’
‘Your anvil must come even before my presents, Miss Bin!’ Harry cried, as he abandoned the gifty table, heaved the anvil into his solitary Nelsonian arm and ran at less than walking pace through the door, which the servant immediately slammed behind us.
‘There! That will hold him for a while.’
She was wrong. Unless by ‘a while’ she had meant less than a second and a half, for within that time the headmaster had crashed through the wood as if it was the paper it might have become had it not chosen to be a door as its timbery career, and he stood in the corridor, face studded with splinters like a man with a porcupine for a head.
‘You will never escape St Bastard’s!’ he shouted, and advanced on us.
There were two doors nearby. Above one was written ‘No Exit’ and above the other ‘Dangerous Exit’. The servant wrenched open the latter, revealing steps leading down into a scary darkness. Salt-tanged air rolled up from below, and not in a good way, like that from a jolly seaside, but in a bad way, like that from a deadly salt-mine, which this was: the school salt-mine.
‘Down, quickly!’
She pushed us forwards; we stumbled on the top step, fell and now finally the anvil came into its own as its huge massiness provided momentum to our descent, rapidly turning it into a plummet until we landed in a heap at the bottom, where the atmosphere was already brackish and thirst-making.
Then we ran.
Not fast, obviously, because an anvil was involved. But eventually we were deep in the salty maze of the mine, and paused to catch our breath. As I panted desperately, I could already feel thirst starting to tickle my throat with its maddening fingers.
‘We should be safe for a while,’ the servant said. ‘Hardthrasher won’t dare come down here without help.’
At that there was the sound of dozens of men entering the salt-mine, for the headmaster had a huge number of wastrels, brigands, rapscallions, ne’er-do-wells, miscreants, savages, brutes, sadists and criminal scum at his disposal, whom he utilized as both PE teachers and security guards for hunting down escaped boys.
‘Ah. He now has help. Run again!’
We did.
Still not very fast because of . . . well, you know.
The anvil.
The briny air filled our lungs but emptied our mouths of moisture. Thirst’s fingers were now not just tickling maddeningly but clawing angrily.
‘Oh, the salt!’ cried Harry. ‘It’s driving me mad! It’s making me hallucinate. I keep thinking I can see a giant rabbit!’
‘Harry, I’m disguised as a rabbit,’ I reminded him.
‘Damn, now there’s two of them!’
‘This way!’ The servant wheeled towards a sliver of light in the distance – could it be the way out she had talked of?
But, alas, as we approached the luminous glow of safety, a great phalanx of the headmaster’s roguish battalion placed itself in our path, cutting off both light and escape, while behind us we could hear the rest of his barbaric force approaching. We would shortly be trapped between these two grim groups.
‘Behind here!’ the servant shouted, ushering us towards a large, salty rock, and we hurried behind it and sat still, scared and very, very thirsty. Indeed, so thirsty that Harry started trying to lick his own forehead for the sweaty moisture thereon, succeeding only in increasing his thirst and spraining his tongue.
‘Where have they gone?’ demanded Headmaster Hardthrasher, his frustration and rage as obvious as a large transvestite who has forgotten to shave or put on a lady-wig. ‘Everybody, halt!’
Silence fell like a shot
With a final jab at the headmaster, the servant spun round and ran for the door.
‘But my presents!’ cried Harry.
‘Leave them!’
‘And my anvil!’ cried Pippa.
‘Leave it!’
‘Never!’
‘Your anvil must come even before my presents, Miss Bin!’ Harry cried, as he abandoned the gifty table, heaved the anvil into his solitary Nelsonian arm and ran at less than walking pace through the door, which the servant immediately slammed behind us.
‘There! That will hold him for a while.’
She was wrong. Unless by ‘a while’ she had meant less than a second and a half, for within that time the headmaster had crashed through the wood as if it was the paper it might have become had it not chosen to be a door as its timbery career, and he stood in the corridor, face studded with splinters like a man with a porcupine for a head.
‘You will never escape St Bastard’s!’ he shouted, and advanced on us.
There were two doors nearby. Above one was written ‘No Exit’ and above the other ‘Dangerous Exit’. The servant wrenched open the latter, revealing steps leading down into a scary darkness. Salt-tanged air rolled up from below, and not in a good way, like that from a jolly seaside, but in a bad way, like that from a deadly salt-mine, which this was: the school salt-mine.
‘Down, quickly!’
She pushed us forwards; we stumbled on the top step, fell and now finally the anvil came into its own as its huge massiness provided momentum to our descent, rapidly turning it into a plummet until we landed in a heap at the bottom, where the atmosphere was already brackish and thirst-making.
Then we ran.
Not fast, obviously, because an anvil was involved. But eventually we were deep in the salty maze of the mine, and paused to catch our breath. As I panted desperately, I could already feel thirst starting to tickle my throat with its maddening fingers.
‘We should be safe for a while,’ the servant said. ‘Hardthrasher won’t dare come down here without help.’
At that there was the sound of dozens of men entering the salt-mine, for the headmaster had a huge number of wastrels, brigands, rapscallions, ne’er-do-wells, miscreants, savages, brutes, sadists and criminal scum at his disposal, whom he utilized as both PE teachers and security guards for hunting down escaped boys.
‘Ah. He now has help. Run again!’
We did.
Still not very fast because of . . . well, you know.
The anvil.
The briny air filled our lungs but emptied our mouths of moisture. Thirst’s fingers were now not just tickling maddeningly but clawing angrily.
‘Oh, the salt!’ cried Harry. ‘It’s driving me mad! It’s making me hallucinate. I keep thinking I can see a giant rabbit!’
‘Harry, I’m disguised as a rabbit,’ I reminded him.
‘Damn, now there’s two of them!’
‘This way!’ The servant wheeled towards a sliver of light in the distance – could it be the way out she had talked of?
But, alas, as we approached the luminous glow of safety, a great phalanx of the headmaster’s roguish battalion placed itself in our path, cutting off both light and escape, while behind us we could hear the rest of his barbaric force approaching. We would shortly be trapped between these two grim groups.
‘Behind here!’ the servant shouted, ushering us towards a large, salty rock, and we hurried behind it and sat still, scared and very, very thirsty. Indeed, so thirsty that Harry started trying to lick his own forehead for the sweaty moisture thereon, succeeding only in increasing his thirst and spraining his tongue.
‘Where have they gone?’ demanded Headmaster Hardthrasher, his frustration and rage as obvious as a large transvestite who has forgotten to shave or put on a lady-wig. ‘Everybody, halt!’
Silence fell like a shot
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