He jumped a low heave-gate and followed the track beyond. In the next field he saw his quarry, hunting along at a little dog-trot.
Joses seemed to have no fear of pursuit.
Jim Silver stole up behind him, Banjo, as though entering into the spirit of the pursuit, seeming to muffle the sound of his going.
A hundred yards from his quarry the young man came with a rattle. Joses turned, but it was too late.
The lash curled round his plump carcase.
Silver swept on like a hailstorm, and pulled Banjo up on his haunches.
Then he sat with white face and shining eyes, trailing his lash as he waited the assault.
He had not long to wait.
Boy sat by the fire in the kitchen and drank her tea, an alert little figure, her burnished hair neatly coiled, and hat beside her.