"We're on his track, sir," declared one of the men, stooping and picking up a polished bit of metal. "'E's dropped a link of that dawg's chain. An' see, sir, 'ere's footprints, quite new-like."
For fifty yards the marks of the fugitive's boots were followed. From the fact that they were the imprints of the toes only, it showed that the man had been running. Then the trail was lost on hard ground.
"We'll pick them up again up-along," declared the second bluejacket optimistically, as he gave a quick glance at the bark of every tree he passed to detect, if possible, the abrasions caused by the foot gear of a climbing man.
A thick clump of prickly undergrowth offered no serious obstacle to the two A.B.'s. Farrar and Holcombe thought better of it, considering the present-day prices of uniform, and made a detour. By the time they resumed their former direction the bluejackets were fifty yards ahead.
Presently the men came to a dead stop on the edge of a brook.
"S'elp me!" exclaimed one. "If that ain't just the bloomin' place for that cove to hide. Come on, mate, let's see what's doin'."
"Right-o," assented the other. "But look out for holes. There usually are some under willows such as that. Let's get up-stream a bit afore we cross. 'Tain't no use getting wet up to your neck when you need only wet your beetle-crushers."
Before these good intentions could be carried out the shrill blast of a whistle echoed through the wood, while the gunnery-lieutenant's voice gave the order, "Retire on your supports."
"Guess Gunnery Jack imagines we're on a bloomin' field day," grumbled one of the bluejackets, and, although he wistfully eyed the suspicious willow, he hastened to obey orders.
A petty officer hurried between the undergrowth, hot and panting with his exertions.