“Which way will you go?”
“Left,” said Ingleborough.
“And I’ll go right.”
They started at once, walking towards the wagon that had taken their attention, Ingleborough making for the front where the man had disappeared, and which necessitated passing the team of bullocks crouching down to ruminate over the fodder that had been cut for them, while West hurried round by the rear, the young men timing themselves so exactly that they met after seeing a pair of stout legs disappear between the fore and hind wheels of the wagon where the man they sought to face had dived under.
Quick as thought, West and Ingleborough separated and ran back lightly and quickly, this time to come upon the man they sought just as he was getting heavily upon his legs again, evidently in the belief that he had not been recognised.
He was thoroughly roused up to his position, though, by Ingleborough’s heavy hand coming down upon his shoulder and hoisting him round to face the pair.
“Hallo, Anson!” cried Ingleborough banteringly; “this is a pleasant surprise!” while West’s eyes flashed as he literally glared in the cowardly scoundrel’s face, which underwent a curious change as he glanced from one to the other, his fat heavy features lending themselves to the dissimulation, as he growled out slowly: “Don’t understand.”
“What!” cried Ingleborough, in the same bantering tone; “don’t you know this gentleman—Mr Oliver West?”
“Don’t understand!” was the reply, and directly after: “Goodnight, Englishmen; I’m going to sleep!”
The next moment the heavy-looking fellow had turned his back again, stepped to the front part of the wagon, and sprawled over part of the wood-work as he tried to draw himself on to the chest before getting inside.