After this new dread came they were silent. Godfrey thought of home, his mother, and poor little Nell; wished he had not snubbed her as he used to do.
Syd felt desperately in his pockets, where he found only a penknife. Why would not his father let him carry firearms as the other boys?
Suddenly turning to Godfrey he made a gesture, and turned his horse full on the hedge of privet. It leaped boldly—Godfrey's followed. But the hounds followed, relentless as fate, and dashed through the lower branches. They were closer than before.
"The gate! the gate!" cried Syd. He had reached it and fumbled for the bolt. Godfrey, a dozen paces behind, fancied he felt the tramp of the powerful beasts shake the ground. He turned, saw them coming with open jaws, closer, closer.
Would the gate never open? There was a creak and crash, and it rolled back on its rusty hinges. The horses darted through so violently as to throw Godfrey on the ground. When he looked up Syd was standing beside him, and from the other side of the iron bars came the baffled roar of the angry beasts.
The boys rode home without a word.
"What about reclaiming property by means of bloodhounds, Syd?" asked Godfrey.
"It's brutal," cried Syd vehemently, and then he laughed. "I tell you, Godfrey, one must actually take another man's place before he can be quite just to him, eh?"