Then there was a scrimmage, joined in by three or four men, and the man of whom they were in search was thrown and handcuffed, a pair being conveniently handy in the sergeant’s pocket.
“This is a slice of good luck,” said Wyatt as soon as the prisoner was secured. “Now then, let the fellow rise, and take him back.—Get up, sir.”
“Can’t,” growled the prisoner savagely.
“Lift him to his feet,” cried the sergeant. The prisoner was dragged up, and it was noticed that he stood on one leg only.
“Here, he has been hurt,” cried Dick. “Look at that leg.—What’s the matter, Hanson?”
“Sprained,” said the man surlily.
“How did you do that?”
“Jumping down into the ditch. You wouldn’t have caught me if it hadn’t been for the sprain.”
“He’s only shamming, sir,” said the sergeant. “He can walk.”
“I think not,” said Dick quietly.—“You are hurt, Hanson?”