“You are the man to beat Huntley,” he declared. “I fear I can’t do it.”
“You have too many fears,” said Frank. “Huntley hasn’t seen us. From the top of the hill he surveyed the country behind him. He must have seen most of the runners who are near, and he must feel that he has time to burn. He is full of confidence now.”
“You’re the one to take the confidence out of him.”
Frank waited for no further urging. He took the lead and set such a pace in mounting to the crest of the hill, following the difficult path they had discovered, that Bramwell dropped some distance in the rear.
The eastern side of the hill was partly cleared or had never borne timber. Down the declivity sped Merry. He cut hither and thither, choosing the best course.
Halfway down the hill was an old stone wall. In one particular spot the wall was lower than elsewhere, and behind it, just at that point, crouched two masked ruffians clutching sand bags.
One of them had peered over the wall and seen Frank coming down the hill.
“This is the bloke, pal!” he growled. “Reddy ter soak him!”
“All right!” hissed the other.
On came the runner. Like a bird he sailed over the weakest part of the old wall, wholly unaware of the masked ruffians who were lying in wait for him at that point.