“I used to go hunting with old Peter Thompson’s gun when I wasn’t any higher than a rail fence,” returned the young photographer. “Which way now?”
“There is a customer of mine lives up a side road not far from here. We might go to his house. I can’t go much farther with this head of mine.”
“Does it hurt very bad?”
“It aches fearfully.”
“Let me tie it up with a wet handkerchief.”
Bob got out his handkerchief and, wetting it in the brook, tied it over the wound. Frank, declared this relieved him considerably, and the two continued on their way at a more rapid pace than ever.
“I don’t believe they are following,” said Bob, as, after five minutes of running, they paused to listen. “I believe that was only a bluff to get us off.”
“Raymond is fearfully mad over the loss of those blood-hounds. He set great store by them. That is one reason the authorities never cared to go there to serve him with papers.”
“It was a pity to kill them, but it couldn’t be helped. I am glad the shots were such lucky ones.”
“So am I. Here we are at Larchmond’s place. I suppose he will think it awfully queer to be roused up at this time of the night.”