"All the same," answered the soldier, "there was a cart full of straw went by ten minutes agone. Might be wise to overtake it and see that all's open and honest."
"I never took my eyes off the prisoner's head," declared Bradridge. "I suppose you'll not call my sight in question, Private Chugg?"
"No, sergeant; no man living's got a sharper eye; but there's heads and there's hats. How if his head weren't under his hat when you see'd it 'pon the mound there?"
"Three of you run up along after thicky cart, an' us'll scour the river banks," said Bradridge; "an' if there's any hookem-snivey dealings, Thomas Putt, 'tis you who will swing at Exeter, not t'other."
"You'll be sorry for that speech, Uncle Sep, when us gets his gashly carkiss out the water," answered Tom calmly. "He's here, I tell you—sunk down into some hole at the bottom—and dead as a hammer by now. An' if he ban't here, where is he? Tell me that?"
The soldiers hunted and probed without success; then they went down the stream and searched beneath the bridge and in every place where a fugitive might lurk with his head above water.
Meanwhile others, led by Private Chugg, ran fast, and soon overtook the cart that had conveyed John Lee. It stood half-way up a steep hill in the woods, with a stone stuck beneath one wheel while the horse rested.
Without ceremony, and despite fierce protests from Tom Putt's friend, the soldiers pitched the entire contents of this vehicle into the road. But they found nothing. Their prisoner had left his unpleasant quarters ten minutes before, and was now half a mile away in the deep woods of Dean.
Throughout that night the screech owls heard a steady sound like their own harsh voices, but subdued to a murmur. It was John at his handcuffs. To separate them proved a difficult task, even with Tom Putt's file; but that done, the man was quickly free.
Far away, as evening fell, Mr. Norcot waited with admirable patience for the arrival of Sergeant Bradridge and his prisoner; while Mother Coaker of Westover Farm mourned a good fish wasted. Tom Putt's salmon, despairing of being eaten, had fallen to pieces in the pot.