The houses in that part of Wandsworth wore a desolate air and there was hardly any movement in the streets, but then it was past nine thirty in the morning; children were at their lessons, their parents at work. The Borribles kept close together, eyes flickering to left and right. It was the first daytime trek of the expedition and they had to be ready to run, hide or give battle; their catapults were grasped in their hands, stones ready for firing. They were trudging towards the lower slopes of Rumbledom, haversacks becoming heavier with every step. Occasionally a door opened in the dead front of a house and a woman shook a doormat or came out to sweep a step. A man hastened by, late for work, and he turned briefly to scrutinize this strange band of earnest children who carried catapults and wore woollen hats; but he was too preoccupied by his own problems to think much about the bizarre nature of the sight and he hurried on. Then things began to happen. The steady progress of the Borribles’ advance was interrupted when a car passed them, close to the pavement, and screeched to a halt fifty yards further up the road.
