“One of them,” said Lomax. “Let’s holloa, all the same.”
But, before we had drawn breath for the shout, there was a yell, a dull sound as of a stick striking a gun-barrel, then a crashing of the lower branches, cries, blows, and a loud voice calling to the poachers to give in.
“Why, it’s father got back,” cried Polly Hopley. “Oh, Mr Lomax, go and help, or they’ll kill him!”
The old sergeant’s mettle was roused, and he dashed into the wood, while, with every pulse throbbing with excitement, we boys followed the direction taken, finding that the poachers were evidently retreating, from the sounds growing farther away.
Then all at once there was the sharp report of a gun, followed by a wild shriek.
“It’s father! They’ve shot him!” cried Polly, who, unknown to us, was close behind. “Run, run!”
We pressed on. It was impossible to run in the darkness, and as we hurried along, a voice cried just in front,—
“You’ve shot my mate. Take that!”
At almost the same time came a sharp rap, a loud report, and then a heavy, dull blow.
“Father, father!” shrieked Polly, as we heard the rustling and breaking of branches, evidently caused by men in full retreat.