“Right-hand side. I’ve wounded him bad.”
“I spot ’im,” cried the boy in the cart. “I spot ’im. Hurry up, Tom; he’s goin’ to dive.”
“No he ain’t. He’s wounded too bad.”
“Yes he is. He’s going to dive. He’ll get away from yer.”
“’E can’t get away,” shouted Tom, perspiring violently.
The banks of the Broadstream at the crossing were not far apart, but the punt was heavy and slow.
“He will get away!” cried the red-headed boy in a pained voice. “You’ve only broke his leg.”
Whereat he jumped out of the cart, picked up a handful of pebbles, and began shying them across stream.
“Let up!” yelled Tom Pagdin. “Let ’im alone; ’e’s my coot!”