“Why didn’t you fire at him?” cried Wyatt angrily.
“Beg pardon, sir,” replied the sentry, drawing himself up as he recognised his officer. “I’m pretty good at firing-practice with carbine and pistol.”
“It doesn’t seem like it, sir,” said Wyatt sharply.
“I should have brought him down, sir,” said the man apologetically.
“Well, that’s what you were placed here for.—That you, Hulton?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Hanson broken out and escaped.”
The captain uttered an angry ejaculation, gave orders, and men with lanterns were sent in pursuit, divided into three parties, with one of which were Wyatt and Dick.
“He’s gone,” said the former angrily. “Hiding in the native quarter somewhere—the scamp! It’s like hunting for a needle in a bottle of hay.”
“Hi! Here: this way, lads,” cried the sergeant in front with a lantern, by whose light Dick indistinctly caught sight of a figure in shirt and trousers rising from below in the ditch.