“Anybody comin’?”
“No, I was listenin’ for—it’s down there.”
He turned suddenly and grabbing Archer around the waist, lifted him off his feet and ran swiftly down a little slope and into the brook which in its meanderings crossed an end of the prison grounds. Then he let Archer down.
“They’ll never track us here,” he panted, and felt for his precious button to make sure that Archer’s body had not pulled it off. “They’ll think only one came this way, maybe, and they won’t know which way to go—Shh!”
Archer held his breath. There was no sound except that of the water rippling at their feet.
“Is that upstream?” Tom asked. “It ought to be shallow all the way. Keep in the water.”
“Step on that shore and you’re in Alsace,” said Archer.
“Don’t step on it,” said Tom. “Shores are tell-tales. Which is the hill?”
“That one with the windmill on it.”
“That black thing?”