He looked up, and saw Chippy's queer old felt hat poked out of a bramble thicket some eight yards away.
'Got yer,' murmured Chippy in his husky whisper. 'Don't gie me away!'
Billy checked the exclamation which was rising to his lips, for he saw at once how unfair it would be to betray Chippy's presence. He approached the bush, and tossed the rag ball back.
'All right,' he said quietly. 'I'll go to the rear; I'm done for.'
'Thanks; you're a straight un,' returned Chippy, and sank into the depths of the bramble thicket and crawled on like a snake.
The next Wolves he saw were running in a pair—Nos. 7 and 8. They had their heads together over a mark, and were debating what it meant, if it did mean anything. It was a long shot, but Chippy did not hesitate. He took a ball in each hand and hung for a second on his aim. He was a first-rate thrower.
It was a favourite sport in Skinner's Hole to cork an empty bottle, toss it far out into the river, and give each player three shots to knock the neck off. Chippy was an easy winner at this game, and when a thrower can hit the neck of a bottle dancing along with the stream he isn't going to miss a boy.
'Hallo!' said No. 7, as something took him in the neck. No. 8 turned to see what was the matter, and pop went a ball into his eye. A felt hat rose from behind a neighbouring bush, and a finger beckoned.
'Why, it's the wharf-rat,' said No. 7. 'He's got us!'
They surrendered at once, for they could do no less, and Chippy sent them to the rear, and crept on in search of fresh victims.