“Surely that’s the very village you were taken to with Ingleton,” said Tom, scanning the place through his binocular. “Have a look.”
“By George! I believe you’re right. There’s a whole host of Moors round it, too. They’ve sighted us. They’re off!”
Taking the glass from him, Tom saw a body of at least a hundred and fifty men galloping off in a direction which would bring them between him and the coast.
“Smother them!” he cried. “I wouldn’t mind if we hadn’t to drop so often to cool.”
“Can’t we make one good dash for it? We’ve only eight or nine miles to go, have we?”
“My dear fellow, we can’t do five miles at a stretch—unless we drop Mr. Schwab.”
“Donnerwetter!” cried the German, starting up in fright. “Vat you say? Vould you do zat? Vould you desert? Vould you leave me, a Jarman sobjeck, to be tore in piece by tousand vile Mohrs, ven ze sea, ze sea vat sails ze Jarman fleet, is so near, so near? But yes—I know it! I alvays say so. Never trust an Englishman—egzept in business!”
Tom treated this outburst with silent contempt.
“I can’t go at a higher speed than fifteen miles an hour,” he said to Oliphant. “We’re perhaps a mile nearer the sea than the Moors, but they can equal our pace for a short distance, and I know we’ll have to come down before we get to the sea. If we do, we’ll be collared.”
“Risk a dash! It seems our only chance.”