Then, with a jeering laugh at the dog’s low growl, he darted away from the now enraged boys.
He ran a few’ steps, then halting, he picked up a stone, and heaved it among the experimentalists.
“Take that for throwing stones at me!” he said derisively, as he took to his heels again. “Look out for your dog, Stepping Hen, and good-bye till I see you again,” he shouted as he ran.
This was more than human nature could bear. With fury in their eyes, and uttering a warwhoop that electrified the flying wretch, they all broke into a run and gave chase, determined to wreak dire vengeance on him.
Bob yelled fearfully,—well he might,—and redoubled his speed.
The pursuers were gaining on him, when a wild cry, a beseeching, almost despairing, appeal for help, reached their ears.
They stopped and stared vacantly at each other. The look each one put on seemed plainly to inquire, “What next?”
“It’s Will,” Charles said. “Where on earth is he?”
“Follow the sound,” the Sage said, philosophical as ever.