Master Frederick Sheldon believed he was running for life, and, finding he was not overtaken, he redoubled his exertions, his chubby legs carrying him along with a speed which astonished even himself.
The terrible hail of his pursuer instead of "bringing him to," therefore, only spurred him to greater exertions.
"I give you warning," called out Bud, beginning to pant from the severity of his exertion, "that I'll shoot, and when I take aim I'm always sure to hit something."
"That's what makes me so afraid," said Sutton, dropping a little behind, "for I think I'm in more danger than the one ahead."
Bud Heyland now raised his revolver and sighted as well as he could at the shadowy figure, which was beginning to edge off to the left. A person on a full run is not certain to make a good shot, and when the weapon was discharged, the bullet missed the fugitive by at least a dozen feet if not more.
Bud lowered the pistol and looked to see the daring intruder fall to the ground, but he did not do so, and continued on at the same surprising gait.
"That bullet grazed him," said Bud, bringing up his pistol again; "just see how I'll make him drop this time; fix your eye on him, and when I pull the trigger he'll give a yell and jump right up in the air."
To make his aim sure, beyond all possibility of failure, the panting pursuer came to a halt for a moment, and resting the barrel on his left arm, as though he were a duelist, he took "dead aim" at the lad and again pulled the trigger.
But there is no reason to believe that he came any nearer the mark than in the former instance; and when Sutton said with a laugh: