“It’s no use! Sellick ’ll have him ’fore he gets to the waste-wear!” said a shoemaker who had just left his bench and run out with his leather apron on.
“If he could only cross the waste-wear and pull up the plank behind him!” observed the tavern-keeper.
“He can’t do that; plank is spiked down,” replied a young journeyman carpenter. “But he might pitch Sellick off as he goes to cross after him,—if he only had a long pole!”
“He’s about beat out; see how Sellick gains on him!” cried Byron Dinks, clapping his hands. “He’ll have him! he’ll have him!”
“I declare, it seems too bad!” said Deacon Chatford, coming down to the shore. “Poor Jack! he has said so much about having a chance for himself, and now!”
“He has no chance with Sellick!” exclaimed Byron Dinks, gleefully. “He’s got him! He’s headed him off! He’s—Oh!”
The deacon echoed, “Oh!” and the throng of spectators broke forth in a chorus of excited oh’s and ah’s, and other exclamations of astonishment.
What had happened was this.
Jack, finding himself no match for the constable, believed that his only hope lay in reaching the canal and crossing to the tow-path. Being a good swimmer, he might gain some slight advantage by that manœuvre; while it seemed quite impossible for him to escape over the waste-wear. He reached the embankment, and went panting and staggering up the steep side; while Sellick mounted easily a rod or two nearer the village, and was at the top before him. This movement drove Jack on towards the waste-wear; but Sellick, it was plain to see, would be there first also.
“You run well, sonny!” laughed the constable; “but you’re beat!”