As he spoke, from the direction of the river there came a sudden loud crack as if a branch had snapped under some one’s foot. Lake heard it, and was quick to guess its significance.
“Ther young varmits is in ther brush yonder, byes. Git ’em out. Arter ’em. Drag ’em out of thar!”
It sounded like the master of a pack of hounds urging on his charges to their work. In obedience to Bully Banjo’s shout and cries the searchers plunged into the brush, shouting and yelling to one another savagely.
Simon Lake was right when he imagined that the sudden sharp noise in the brush had been caused by the boys. It was Jack’s unlucky encounter with a dead limb half buried in dried leaves and debris that had caused it. The accident could not possibly have occurred at a more unfortunate moment for the boys.
Gritty lads as they were, both of them changed color and their pulses began to beat a tattoo as they heard the human bloodhounds break into full cry at the sound.
“Tom, I’m—I’m awfully sorry,” gasped Jack contritely.
“Rubbish, old fellow. How could you help it?” rejoined Tom. “Come on, we’ll beat them yet.”
“How?”
The question seemed a natural one. They were still some little distance from the river, in the midst of thick underbrush through which it was hard to proceed quickly without making a noise. The outlaws, on the other hand, probably knew of trails to the river bank. They might thread these quickly and arrive there ahead of the boys.
But they kept doggedly on. Tom had given no answer to Jack’s question. Time was too precious for that now, and breath, too. The great object was to reach the river bank first. Tom felt that once among its rugged rocks and intricate windings, interspersed as they were by dense brakes of brush, that they would stand at least a chance of getting away unobserved.