David and the twins suddenly remembered about the parcel addressed to Thurston which the rude old man at the station had been hunting for amongst their luggage.

"I've never met him or Mrs. Thurston," said Peter. "Shall we go and spy out the land for ourselves? We could ask for a drink and see what happens? There's plenty of time. We've lost our victim anyway, and if the twins aren't too tired we'll go over to the edge so that you can see the Stiperstones and the Devil's Chair that Dickie so badly wants. Then, if we feel like it, we can climb down through the pine wood to Appledore and see who really lives there."

So they set off again along a thin track leading to the west side of the mountain. Distances were deceptive up here, and they had been walking for ten minutes before they reached a ridge nearly as high as the summit.

"There you are, Dickie," said Peter, "there's the Stiperstones with the Devil's Chair at the top. You know what they say, don't you? When you can't see the Chair it means he's sitting in it."

"We know," said Dickie. "We've got a sailor friend who told us!"

"The Stiperstones are higher than the Mynd, I believe. Can you see the Chair?"

Dickie couldn't admit that the black rocks crowning the highest part of the ridge looked like a Chair. They didn't - not really.

"If we can't see his chair he's sittin' in it, isn't he?" persisted Richard. "I want to know. That's all I ask. I just want to know."

As he sounded rather agitated David changed the subject.

"What about a drink? That's what I want more than anything, but maybe you two are tired and we'd better go straight back? We've got to get to Witchend after we've picked up our things at Peter's remember. How long will it take us to climb up again and get back to Hatchholt, Peter?" he continued. "And can you show us a quicker way back to Witchend?"

"You needn't come back to us, David. I'll show you a quick way along the top to the Witchend valley, and I'll ride over on Sally tomorrow and bring your haversacks with me."

David made no further protest, but Macbeth did. He just refused to get up, but wagged his tail feebly and rolled on his back when Mary called him.

"He wants a drink like us," she said. "Poor little Mackie."

At this endearment Mac feebly struggled to his feet.

The path down was steep and they were soon among the pine trees. The smell reminded them of the Witchend wood, but this one was much bigger. The trees were taller and there was not so much undergrowth. The track was slippery with pine needles.