After the session with the books there was always more physical training. Dodger taught them how to jump from a great height and fall without hurting themselves; how to take punches rolling with the blow, how to duck and weave. He taught them the vulnerable spots of the Rumble anatomy and again how to use the Rumblestick. Then, in the latter part of the afternoon, Knocker, who'd had a great deal of experience, more than any other known Borrible, taught them field tactics which was all about crossing commons and parks. He took them into the wildest terrain, like the middle of Clapham Common which was very open and deserted, just the place for Rumbles to burrow in secret and establish themselves unnoticed. Like other Borribles Knocker much preferred crowded streets with markets and shops, but unlike the others he'd been obliged, because of his calling, to do an enormous amount of country work. Somehow he had made himself overcome the basic fear that Borribles have when faced with woods and fields. They hate such things. "Fields", they say, "are always windy and there is nowhere to hide, no crowds to get lost in, and there is nothing to pick up, no lorries for things to fall off. It's not so bad when the sun is hot and a Borrible can lie under the shade of a tree looking at the sky moving between the branches, but even then a Borrible really likes to be up to something, in the street."
In spite of all this Knocker forced his team to undertake many a journey into Battersea Park and he taught them how to listen for the sound underneath the ground that told them that a Rumble or a mole or a rat was down there. They learned how to climb trees and how to jump from them and how to crawl through bushes. But, over and above all this, Knocker made them train hour after hour with the Borribles' traditional and preferred weapon. It had been used by them for generations, and had been chosen for its simplicity, its range, its power and its deadliness. It was a weapon that was very ancient but was as efficient as any modern invention. It could be made anywhere and, back in the days of the nineteenth century when Borribles had endured great hardships and had been hounded from place to place, it had become their favourite method of defense because of the cheapness of its manufacture. The weapon was of course that very dangerous one, the catapult.
Every Borrible was born an expert with the catapult, but the Eight would have to surpass the usual standards and become boringly accurate, able to hit a Rumble on the snout each time they fired.
"You must never miss," Knocker told them. "You will have a great deal of provisions to carry, but if you all keep ten stones in reserve you should be able to account for eighty of the enemy between you. If you are besieged, always choose somewhere where you can find plenty of ammunition lying about, then you will be invincible." And so each of the Eight became a crack shot; every one of them could take a fly off a park-keeper's nose at a hundred yards and he'd never even notice.
That was how every day was filled. After the daily sortie to the Park they returned to Rowena where they found that the High Street Borribles had provided them with a supper of food taken from the market. They ate with huge appetites and, after talking to each other for a little while, they rolled up in their sleeping-bags and snoozed on the floor of the long, dusty room. The next day they would have to wake early and do the same things again—run a little faster, shoot a little straighter. They would have to tackle difficult questions and find new answers to the problems that Knocker would devise. He would make them go over the expedition route on the street map of London and play war-games where he would imagine them in impossible situations and oblige them to think their way clear as quickly as they could and if Knocker wasn't satisfied they would have to do it again, and then again. They were tired all the time.
About one o'clock on a grey afternoon towards the end of the fortnight, Spiff, with two or three other stewards from the High Street, made an appearance in the store-room of the Rowena Crescent Gym. It was the beginning of the rest period and Spiff walked around the room talking to the Borribles who were stretched out on their sleeping-bags dozing with their eyes only half open. When he'd had a short word with each, he came over to speak to Knocker and Dodger.
"Afternoon, Knocker," said Spiff, nodding his head abruptly at the two stewards by his side. "This is Rasher and this is Ziggy."
Knocker stood up and said, "Those are fine names, certainly, I would like to hear the stories one day."
The two stewards nodded but did not smile. They looked out of humour.
"Yes," said Spiff, "that will have to wait of course. Now, Knocker, you've reached the end of the two weeks. How have you got on?"
Knocker reached for a large book on his desk. It contained a detailed description of each Borrible's training, together with various comments.
Spiff waved it aside. "No, I can look at that later, just a verbal report will do."
"Keep it general, too," said Rasher acidly. "Well," said Knocker, looking sideways at Dodger, "they are very good, all of them. Some are better at one thing than another, but they are all naturals with the catapult. They could knock off a running cat with their eyes closed, girls as well, in fact Chalotte is better than all of the others, except perhaps Orococco. Hand-to-hand fighting is good, climbing good, running very fast. With the Rumble-stick they vary, but Bingo is fantastic. They aren't so good at scouting work in the countryside, but that takes years of practice and it's unnatural, but they're first-class in the streets and markets, you hardly see their hands come up from beneath a barrow when they takes their dinner. Marvellous. And all of them are dead keen." Knocker hesitated and lowered his voice." I'm only worried about one of them, although he's worked as hard as anyone, harder. But I dunno, there's something that worries me about Napoleon Boot. He always seems to be thinking about something else, there's a slimy feel to him, it's . . . well, to tell the truth, Spiff, I dunno, it's just a feeling."
Dodger nodded at the three stewards to substantiate what Knocker had said.
Spiff looked back down the hall to where the Borribles were resting. Some were reading the Rumble books, others were just relaxing and looking at the ceiling. Napoleon Boot was scrutinising the road map of Greater London and memorising street names.
"He never stops," said Knocker. "They all know The Borrible Book of Proverbs by heart, but Napoleon knows it backwards and sideways as well. He's too good to be true."
Spiff creased his face. "Well, son, there's nothing we can do now. They have to have a Wendle with 'em because they've got to cross the Wandle. You know how suspicious they are of anybody who wants to cross their bloody river." He sniffed. "It ought to be all right, I mean the adventure is in their interest, ain't it? The Rumbles could easily burrow under Wandsworth Common and move from there down to the streets. The Wendles are in more danger than we are simply because they're nearer to Rumbledom, ain't they? It'll work out, you'll see."
There was silence as if nobody agreed with him, not even Spiff himself. He changed the subject.
"Well, your blokes must leave soon anyway, the longer they wait the more dangerous it is. There was a psychological advantage in letting the Rumbles know we were on to them, but the longer we take in getting up there, the more time they will have to prepare their defences. Our Eight might not be able to get into the Rumble Burrow. Imagine—all that way for nothing!"
Ziggy, who had been trying to interrupt Spiff's flow, at last got a word in. "I've never liked this idea, you know, Spiff. I think we should have gone up there in force, taken them on, given them a thumping, duffed 'em up."
"Out of your mind," said Spiff impatiently; he was always right and knew it. "We'd have been outnumbered ten to one and they'd have been fighting on their own ground. We stand a much better chance by sending eight professionals like this, and eliminating their leaders, mark my words."
"Oh, it sounds all right on paper," said Ziggy condescendingly, "but I don't think that those eight over there can manage it. They haven't done anything yet. Anyone can fire a catapult at a Woollie and run—but what if it's a Rumble with a Rumble-stick at your throat, eh?"
"Look," said Knocker getting annoyed, "I've trained this lot. If anyone can get inside the Rumble Burrow they can."
"Rubbish," said Rasher, joining in the argument, "they don't stand a monkey's."
"They do," said Knocker.
"They don't," said Ziggy.
The stewards frowned at their feet.
Spiff sniffed again. "I've been looking at the map, Knocker. I thought that the Eight ought to go up the Thames, from St Mary's to Wandsworth Reach. I know it's dangerous, but it will save days on the journey, and it means the Eight will be going in from a direction that the Rumbles won't dream of. Even if they've got lookouts deployed as far as Wandsworth Common Railway and Earlsfield, we'll outflank them. What do you say?"
Knocker was angry all over again. "But, Spiff," he cried, grabbing the steward's arm, "the river is a death trap, all those barges and tugs and police launches, they'd be run down or run in without a chance. They've had no training for water. I don't even know if they can row. I thought they were going to march overland, and now you want to throw 'em into the river. It's not on, Spiff."