But he was on his feet before the sound of the shot had reached him.
He was on one of the arms of the bay, which was roughly semi-circular. The village was in the centre of the arc. A quick calculation told him that the bullet had come from some point on the cliff between the Pill Box and the village, but he could see nothing on the skyline. A moment later a frantic silhouette appeared at the top of the tor, and the voice of Orace hailed down an anxious query. The Saint waved his towel in response and, making for the foot of the cliff, began to climb up again.
He accomplished the difficult ascent with no apparent effort, quite unperturbed by the thought that the unknown sniper might essay a second round. And presently the Saint stood on the grass above, hands on hips, gazing keenly down the slope towards the spot where the bullet had seemed to come from. A quarter of a mile away was a broad clump of low bushes; beyond the copse, he knew, was a cart-track leading down to the village. The Saint shrugged and turned to Orace, who had been fuming and fidgeting around him.
“The Tiger knows his stuff,” remarked Simon Templar with a kind of admiration.
“Like a greenorn!” spluttered Orace. “Like a namachoor! Wa did ja expect? An’ just wotcha observed—an’ I ope it learns ya! You ain’t ’urt, sir, are ye?” added Orace, succumbing to human sympathy.
“No—but near enough,” said the Saint.
Orace flung out his arms.
“Pity ’e didn’t plug ya one, just ter make ya more careful nex’ time. I’d a bin grateful to ’im. An’ if I ever lay my ’ands on the swine ’es fore it,” concluded Orace somewhat illogically, and strutted back to the Pill Box.
Orace, as a Sergeant of Marines, had received a German bullet in his right hip at Zeebrugge, and had walked with a lopsided strut ever since.
“Brekfuss in narf a minnit,” Orace flung over his shoulder.