Luckily, the bull's onset was directed at the umbrella. There was a thundering of hoofs, a dull roar, and the poor man, as he gained the summit and cast a frantic look behind, saw a vision of jagged silk and flying ribs. With a groan he tore forwards.
There was a hedge about fifty yards away, and for this he made with panting sides and tottering knees. If he could only stop that alarum! But the relentless noise continued, and now he could hear the bull in fresh pursuit. However, the umbrella had diverted the attack. After a few seconds of agony Mr. Fogo gained the hedge, tore up it, turned, saw the brute appear above the ridge with a wreck of silk and steel upon his horns, and with a sob of thankfulness dropped over into the next field.
But alas! in doing so Mr. Fogo performed the common feat of leaping out of the frying-pan into the fire. For it happened that on the other side a tramp was engaged in his legitimate occupation of sleeping under a hedge, and on his extended body our hero rudely descended.
"Hi!" said the tramp, "where be you a-comin' to?"
Mr. Fogo picked himself up and felt for his spectacles; they had tumbled off in his flight, and without them his face presented a curiously naked appearance. The alarum in his pocket had stopped suddenly with the jerk of his descent.
"I beg your pardon," he mildly apologised, "but a bull in the next field—"
"That's no cause for selectin' a gentl'm'n's stomach to tumble 'pon, growled the tramp.
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," repeated Mr. Fogo; "you may be sure that had time for selection been allowed me—"
"Look 'ere," said the tramp with sudden ferocity, "will you fight?"
