“Hurt, did it!” said Vane, bending down, and whispering a few words. Then aloud, as he rose. “Now, then, get up and let me tie your hands behind you.”
The lad rose slowly and painfully.
“Turn round and put your hands behind you,” cried Vane.
The lad obeyed, and then as if shot from a bow he leaped over his prostrate brother with a loud whoop and dashed off among the trees.
“No, no, it’s of no use,” cried Vane as Distin started in pursuit; “you might just as well try to catch a hare. Now you, sir, up with you.”
The second lad rose, groaning as if lame and helpless, turning his eyes piteously upon his captor; and then, quick as lightning, he too started off.
“Loo, loo, loo!” shouted Vane, clapping his hands as if cheering on a greyhound. “I say, Distie, how the beggars can run.”
A defiant shout answered him, and Vane clapped his hands to his mouth and yelled:
“Po-lice—if you ever come again.”
“Yah!” came back from the wood, and Distin cried, angrily: