"Perhaps," rejoined the other coolly. "Meanwhile I will do my utmost to raise an alarm. If I fail, your pistol-shot will complete the work."
Looking the spy straight in the face the scoutmaster again raised his whistle. In a flash Oberfurst realised the truth of his opponent's remarks. After all, he was not "out" with the intention of committing unnecessary murder. His sole anxiety was to break through the cordon and put a safe distance between him and the bleak heights of Dartmoor.
Throwing away the pistol, Oberfurst folded his arms.
"You have won," he remarked simply.
"To avoid further trouble, I will take possession of this little toy," said the scoutmaster.
He stepped forward a couple of paces and bent to pick up the weapon. As he did so, the spy suddenly lashed out with his left foot. Skilled in the Continental style of boxing, he knew exactly how to gauge his distance and kick with the greatest effect.
Taken completely by surprise, the luckless Englishman, who in all good faith had accepted the spy's surrender, dropped like a log, before he had time to utter a sound.
Coolly Oberfurst regained possession of his pistol, fully expecting to find himself assailed on all sides. Agreeably disappointed, he proceeded to strip his unconscious victim of his coat, gaiters, and hat. This done, he dragged the scoutmaster to the spot where the spy had lain in concealment.
"He will not recover consciousness for several hours—if he does at all," soliloquised the spy, with a shrug of his shoulders. "That is his affair, not mine. Now I must assume the character of officer of Boy Scouts. I wish I were more certain of my new duties."
For a couple of hundred yards Oberfurst proceeded cautiously, then, drawing himself erect, he set off at a swinging pace across the moors. Bluff, not concealment, was to be his watchword.