“At him, Master Tom! Give it him!”
Tom wanted no urging; he seized the rope and tried to draw the captive back into the garden, but the effort was vain, so leaving it he drew back, took a run and a jump, scrambled on to the top of the wall, so as to lean over, and then began thrashing away with his stout hazel as if he were beating a carpet.
Thud, thud—whack, whack, he delivered his blows at the struggling object below, and at every whish of the stick there was a violent kick and effort to get free. Once the stick was seized, but only held for a moment before it was dragged away, and then, thud, thud, thud, the blows fell heavily, while, in an intense state of excitement, the gardener kept on shouting—
“Harder, harder, Master Tom! Sakes, I wish I was there! Harder, sir, harder! Let him have it! Stop him! Ah!”
There was a rustling, scrambling sound on Tom’s side of the wall, and the cracking of the stick, which had come in contact with the bricks, for the prisoner had escaped, and his footsteps could be faintly heard, as he dashed over the grassy field into the darkness, where Tom felt it would be useless to pursue.
But just then he did not possess the power, for he could only lean there over the wall, and laugh in a way that was quite exhausting, and it was not until David had been growling and muttering for some minute or two that he was able to speak.
“What made you let him go, David?” he panted at last.
“Let him go, sir? I didn’t let him go. He just jerked the rope out of my hands, after dragging me down and over the gravel path. There’s no end o’ bark off my knuckles and nose.”
“Oh, don’t say you’re hurt, David,” said Tom, sitting up astride of the wall.
“Why not, sir? Yes, I shall. I’m hurt horrid. Arms feel ’most jerked out o’ the sockets, and skin’s off the palms of my hands, leastwise it feels like it. Going to run arter him?”