“We can’t stay here,” he said. He himself was ready to drop from the fatigue and excitement of the day, but hope of escape gave him strength, and he ran on through an open field until he reached some bottom-land covered by a few unhealthy-looking pine-trees. Here he paused, panting almost as hard as the poor vanished “General” had done in the last stages of its journey. He next deposited his charge on the sodden earth. They were both still in imminent danger of pursuit, but for the time being they were screened from view.
Watson bent tenderly over the boy, whilst Waggie pulled at his sleeve as he had been accustomed to do far away at home when he wanted to wake up his master. George finally opened his eyes and looked around him, first dreamily, then with a startled air.
“It’s all right, my lad,” whispered Watson cheerily. “You only fainted away, just for variety, but now you are chipper enough again.”
George stretched his arms, raised himself to a sitting posture, and then sank back wearily on the ground.
“I’m so tired,” he said. “Can’t I go to sleep?” He was utterly weary; he cared not if a whole army of men and dogs was after him; his one idea was rest—rest.
“This won’t do,” said Watson firmly. “We can’t stay here.” He produced from his pocket a little flask, poured some of the contents down the boy’s throat, and then took a liberal drink himself. George began to revive, as he asked how he had been brought to his present resting-place.
“In my arms,” exclaimed Watson. “But I can’t keep that sort of thing up forever. We must get away from here. Every moment is precious.”
As if to emphasize the truth of this warning, the baying of the dog and the cries of men began to sound nearer. Watson sprang to his feet. The increase of the danger gave him new nerve; he no longer looked the tired, haggard man of five minutes ago.
“We can’t stay here,” he said, calmly but impressively; “it would be certain capture!”
George was up in an instant. The draught from the flask had invested him with new vigor.