“I say, don’t go that way,” said Dick, as his companion struck off to the left. “Bog’s soft there.”
“I know: come along! Keep on the tufts.”
Dick understood Tom’s low chuckling laugh, which was just like that of a cuckoo in a bush, and divining that the object was to reach the boat by a détour, he did not slacken his speed.
Long familiarity with the worst parts of the fen enabled the lads to pick their way exactly, and they went on bounding from tuft to tuft, finding fairly firm ground for their feet as if by instinct, though very often they were going gingerly over patches of bog which undulated and sprang beneath their tread, while now and then they only saved themselves from going through the dry coat of moss by making a tremendous leap.
They had pretty well half a mile to run to reach the boat by the alder bush, and the constable soon began to go heavily; but he was so satisfied that the boys had some sinister design in view, and were trying to throw him off their scent, that he put forth all his energies, and as Dick glanced back once, it was to see him, hat in hand, toiling along in the hot sun right in their wake.
“You’d better not go round there, Tom,” said Dick as they approached a patch of rushes. “It’s very soft.”
“I don’t care if I go in; do you?” was the reply.
“No, I don’t mind,” said Dick sadly. “I don’t seem to mind anything now.”
“Come along then,” cried Tom; “and as we get round let’s both look back and then try to keep out of sight—pretend, you know.”
They reached the patch of tall rushes and reeds, which was high enough to hide them, and giving a frightened look back at their pursuer, plunged out of sight.