“Here, Will,” he cried, “which way had I better go? Up the long crack, or make for the fox’s path?”
“One’s as bad as the other,” cried Will. “Fox’s path. Here, go on faster. Let me lead; I know the way best. I never saw such an old chucklehead. Why did you come this way?”
He brushed by his companion as he spoke, his legs making a whishing sound as he tore through clumps of fern and brake, running on and on over the rapidly-rising ground till the path was at an end, and they drew closer to a spot where the rocks closed in, forming a cul de sac, unless they were willing to take a leap of some twenty feet into a deep pool, or climb up the rocky wall just in front.
“We can’t jump,” panted Will.
“No,” half whispered Josh. “Oh, what a mess we are in! You will have to beg his pardon, Will.”
“You’ll have to hold your tongue, or else we shall be caught. It’s all right; come on. I can get up here.”
The boy proved it by springing at the rocky face, catching a projecting block and the tufts of heath and heather, kicking down earth and stone as he rose, and scrambling up some fifteen feet before gaining a resting-place, to pause for a moment to look down and see how his companion was getting on.
To his horror, Josh was almost at the bottom of the wall, and, scarlet with fury and exertion, the artist panting heavily about two score yards behind.
“I’ve got you, you dogs! It’s no use, I’ve got you!”
“Oh!” groaned Will, ready to give up, wondering the while whether the artist would thrash him with his elastic maul-stick.