And then the pursuers made a mistake. Had they continued on their course upstream and rowed across to the nearest stairs, or to one of the quays that broke the riverside, they could have landed well ahead of the boys and met them while they were still floundering in the mud flats. But in their haste and flurry, due no doubt to their wish to avoid drawing too much attention from passing boats, they swung round against the current and made toward the boys.
Ankle deep in slime, Martin and Gundra struggled on to gain the waste land that stretched up from the river bank. The pursuing boat rapidly approached them, and was only some twenty yards behind when its nose stuck in the mud, throwing the rowers forward over their oars. Cursing violently, the men strove to back water, but the boat was held fast, the oars were useless, and it was only after precious time had been wasted that the men decided to jump overboard and continue the pursuit on foot.
In the clinging mud their weight told against them. By the time they had dragged themselves on to the dry land the boys were already disappearing into the hedge-lined lane that wound north-westward in the direction of Spitalfields.
As they ran the chain by which Gundra had been fastened slipped from his steel girdle, and its clanking gave a clue to their line of flight. They heard the heavy feet of their pursuers thundering after them. Martin tucked the chain up as well as he could, scarcely changing his pace, and dragged Gundra along. In a minute or two they would reach houses, and among them, shadowed from the glare of the Fire, they might hope to elude further pursuit.
“No can run,” panted Gundra suddenly, placing his hand over his heart.
“A stitch,” thought Martin.
To lose time would be fatal. Without a moment’s hesitation he hauled the Indian through a thin place in the hedge.
“Lie flat,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”
They lay beneath the hedge, trying to smother the sounds of their quick breathing. The pursuers came up, passed; their footsteps receded.