Going to rush off there too, are you, with your tongue hanging out?"
"All this time you're taking off work," said Frank Yardley. "You'll end up losing the job. Get on living is my advice."
"Don't know about that," said Sam Partridge unexpectedly. "Does seem to me as man ought to get his own back. Supposing Tarnover did do the dirty on the Babbidges —"
"What's there to suppose about it?" Jason broke in angrily.
"Easy on, Jay. I was going to say as Babbidges are Atherton people. So he did the dirty on us all, right?"
"Thanks to some people being a bit slow in their help."
Sam flushed. "Now don't you start attacking everyone right and left. No one's perfect. Just remember who your real friends are, that's all."
"Oh, I'll remember, never fear."
Frank inclined an empty glass from side to side. "Right. Whose round is it?"
One thing led to another, and Jason had a thick head the next morning.
In the evening Ned banged on the Babbidge door.
"Bird on the glass, Sam says to tell you," he announced. "How about going for a spin to see it?"
"I seem to recall last night you said I was wasting my time."
"Ay, running around all over the country. But this is just for a spin. Nice evening, like. Mind, if you don't want to bother. Then we can all have a few jars in the Wheatsheaf afterwards."
The lads must really have missed him over the past few weeks. Quickly Jason collected his skates and sail.
"But what about your supper?" asked his mother. "Sheep's head broth."
"Oh, it'll keep, won't it? I might as well have a pasty or two in the Wheatsheaf."
"Happen it's better you get out and enjoy yourself," she said. "I'm quite content. I've got things to mend."
Twenty minutes later Jason, Sam, and Ned were skimming over the glass two miles out. The sky was crimson with banks of stratus, and a river of gold ran clear along the horizon: foul weather tomorrow, but a glory this evening. The glassy expanse flowed with red and gold reflections: a lake of blood, fire, and molten metal. They did not at first spot the other solitary sail-skater, nor he them, till they were quite close to the slow bird.
Sam noticed first. "Who's that, then?"
The other sail was brown and orange. Jason recognized it easily. "It's Tarnover!"
"Now's your chance to find out, then," said Ned.
"Do you mean that?"
Ned grinned. "Why not? Could be fun. Let's take him."
Pumping their legs, the three sail-skaters sped apart to outflank Tarnover — who spied them and began to turn. All too sharply, though. Or else he may have run into a slick of water on the glass. To Jason's joy Max Tarnover, champion of the five villages, skidded.
They caught him. This done, it didn't take the strength of an ox to stop a skater from going anywhere else, however much he kicked and struggled.
But Jason hit Tarnover on the jaw, knocking him senseless.
"What the hell you do that for?" asked Sam, easing Tarnover's fall on the glass.
"How else do we get him up on the bird?"
Sam stared at Jason, then nodded slowly.
It hardly proved the easiest operation to hoist a limp and heavy body on to a slowly moving object while standing on a slippery surface; but after removing their skates they succeeded. Before too long Tarnover lay sprawled atop, legs dangling. Quickly with his pocket knife Jason cut the hemp cord from Tarnover's sail and bound his ankles together, running the tether tightly underneath the bird.
Presently Tarnover awoke, and struggled groggily erect. He groaned, rocked sideways, recovered his balance.
"Babbidge. Partridge, Ned Darrow.? What the hell are you up to?"
Jason planted hands on hips. "Oh, we're just playing a little prank, same as you did on my brother Dan. Who's missing now; maybe forever, thanks to you."
"I never —"
"Admit it, then we might cut you down."
"And happen we mightn't," said Ned. "Not till the Wheatsheaf closes.
But look on the bright side: happen we might."
Tarnover's legs twitched as he tested the bonds. He winced. "I honestly meant your brother no harm."
Sam smirked. "Nor do we mean you any. Ain't our fault if a bird decides to fly off. Anyway, only been here an hour or so. Could easily be here all night. Right, lads?"
"Right," said Ned. "And I'm thirsty. Race you? Last ones buys?"
"He's admitted he did it," said Jason. "You heard him."
"Look, I'm honestly very sorry if —"
"Shut up," said Sam. "You can stew for a while, seeing as how you've made the Babbidges stew. You can think about how sorry you really are."
Partridge hoisted his sail.
It was not exactly how Jason had envisioned his revenge. This seemed like an anticlimax. Yet, to Tarnover no doubt it was serious enough. The champion was sweating slightly. Jason hoisted his sail, too. Presently the men skated away… to halt by unspoken agreement a quarter of a mile away. They stared back at Tarnover's little silhouette upon his metal steed.
"Now if it was me," observed Sam, "I'd shuffle myself along till I fell off the front. Rub you a bit raw, but that's how to do it."
"No need to come back, really," said Ned. "Hey, what's he trying?"
The silhouette had ducked. Perhaps Tarnover had panicked and wasn't thinking clearly, but it looked as if he was trying to lean over far enough to unfasten the knot beneath, or free one of his ankles. Suddenly the distant figure inverted itself. It swung right round the bird, and Tarnover's head and chest were hanging upside down, his arms flapping. Or perhaps Tarnover had hoped the cord would snap under his full weight; but snap it did not. And once he was stuck in that position there was no way he could recover himself upright again, or do anything about inching along to the front of the bird.