“Run for it. Look here, make straight for that wood up the slope,” whispered Punch. “You go first, and I will follow.”
“But that’s uphill,” whispered Pen.
“Bad for them as for us,” replied the boy. “Up with you; right for the wood. Once there, we are safe.”
Punch had said he hated to argue, and it was no time for argument then as to the best course.
Pen gazed in the direction of the approaching party, but they were invisible; and, turning to his comrade, “Now then,” he said, “off!”
Springing up, he started at a quick run in and out amongst the bushes and rocks in the direction of the forest indicated by his companion, conscious the next minute, as he glanced back in turning a block of stone, that Punch was imitating his tactics, carrying his musket at the trail and bending low as he ran.
“Keep your head down, Punch,” he said softly, as the boy raced up alongside. “We can’t see them, so they can’t see us.”
“Don’t talk—run,” whispered Punch. “That’s right—round to your left. Don’t mind me if I hang back a bit. I am short-winded yet. I shall follow you.”
For answer, Pen slackened pace, and let Punch pass him.
“Whatcher doing?” whispered the boy.