Jock was at the gate now.
His breath blew hot and thick from his nostrils, his red eyes seemed to flash fire.
“Towsie Jock! Towsie! Towsie!”
The bull was mad. He tore up the earth with his fore-feet, and the grass with his teeth.
“Towsie! Tow—”
Before Harry could finish the word, greatly to his horror, the bull threw off the top bar with one of his horns, and in three seconds more had leapt clean over.
But Harry was too quick for him, and what followed spoke well for the presence of mind of our young hero.
To have attempted to run straight away from the bull would have meant a speedy and terrible death. He would have been torn limb from limb. But no sooner did the bar rattle down, than both Harry and Eily sprang to the stone fence and jumped over into the field, just as the bull jumped out of it.
Jock was considerably nonplussed at not finding his tormentor where he had expected to.
“Towsie! Towsie!” cried Harry, and the bull leapt back into the field, and Harry and Eily scrambled out of it. This game was kept up for some time, a sort of wild hide-and-seek, much to Harry’s delight; but each time he leapt the wall he edged farther and farther from the gate.