“Ah–h–ah! I knew it!” cried the artist, springing to his feet in a rage. “You dogs! I see you!”
It was the truth the next moment, for Josh rushed off to get into safety, closely followed by Will, whilst their victim gave chase.
Hunted creatures somehow in their hurry to escape pursuit, have a natural inclination for taking the wrong route, the one which leads them into danger when they are seeking to be safe.
It was so here. Josh led, and Will naturally followed; but his comrade might have gone round by the mill, run for the stepping-stones, where he could have crossed and made for the rough hiding-places known to him on the other side of the stream; or he might have dodged for the garden-gate, darted through, and made for the zig-zag path leading to the open moorland; but instead of this, he dashed down to the waterside, ran along by it, and then took the ascending path right up the glen, getting more and more out of breath, and with Will panting heavily close behind.
“Oh, you chucklehead!” cried the latter, huskily. “Why did you come along here? You knew we couldn’t go far.”
“It’s all right. He won’t follow. He’ll be tired directly; he’s so fat.”
“I don’t care,” cried Will, stealing a look over his shoulder; “fat or thin, he’s coming along as hard as he can pelt.”
“Yes, but he’s about done.”
“He isn’t, I tell you; he’s coming faster than you can go. Go along: look sharp!”
The boys ran on, Josh getting more and more breathless every moment, while he began to lose heart as he heard the artist shouting to him to stop.