Jack saw the German lad chasing through the undergrowth as if the very Old Nick was after him, swinging his cap as he ran, and shouting out some words which he could not understand.
Finally Hans turned square about, pointed in the direction from which he had come, and resumed his flight toward Jack.
"I guess some one is chasing the boy," Jack concluded, stationing himself close to a slender path which Hans was certain to follow.
In a moment the wisdom of this remark and this arrangement became apparent. Hans came nearer, puffing and grunting, and a second after a runner who was gaining on the German shot around an angle of undergrowth and reached out for Hans.
Hans had passed the spot where Jack crouched by this time, and the pursuer was proceeding to foot it after him when Jack stuck out a leg and brought him to the ground. Hans saw the action and fell flat on the ground, blowing like a fat man on a thousand-step climb.
The man who had fallen, apparently an Englishman, middle aged, well dressed for that country, and with a red, passionate face, sat up and scowled at Jack.
"Wot the bloomin' mischief did ye do thot f'r?" he asked.
"To stop you," replied Jack.
"You're bloody roight ye stopped me!" cried the other, trying to get on his feet. "An' now I'll be stoppin' of ye!"
Jack placed his hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him back to the ground.