II
The man was lying on his back half-way up the slope, reading a little brown book.
Kit could not see his face; but he had no need.
Well he knew those buck-skin breeches, those mud-spattered tops, those tall knees.
"Who's that bloke?" whispered a voice at his ear.
"The officer commanding the French. Hush!"
"Crikey!" whispered Knapp, much impressed, and peering through the tamarisk. "Ain't he got a pair o legs on him neether?"
Before Kit could stop him, he had brushed past and dropped into the creek, light as a feather.
For a moment he squatted there, monkey-fashion, blinking after the darkness.
The sun shone on his naked back, ridged and rippling. A little man, he was solid as a boulder: thighs tremendous, shin-bones great and bowed. Such fists too! such feet!
Kit leaned out. For better or worse, the thing was done now. No good calling him back, no good cursing him. Better make the best of it.
"You've got a clear run," whispered the boy. "Hug the far bank, so the sentry on the Wish can't see you; stick to the creek as far as you can; and when you leave the shore, take a wide sweep towards the Downs, to avoid their sentries; and then run, man!—run as you never ran before!"
"I'll run, man, run fast enough soon as you done talkin," replied the Cockney cheekily, hopping across the creek to the shelter of the far bank. "Be in Lewes afore you're back to the guv'nor, I'll lay. Ta-ta."
He was away down the creek, running like a monkey, finger-tips touching the ground.
Kit, thankful to tears, watched the sun on the man's ridged back, as he stole away.
Surely, he was through now.
A sound made him look up.