"Catch him!" I cried. "Yonder he goes."
But the little man was shooting forward like a deer. He was in the bushes now, bursting through everything, dodging and twisting up the hill. Right and left ran his pursuers, mistaking each other for the robber in the semi-gloom, yelling frantically, mad with the excitement of a man-hunt. And in the midst of it all I lay in a pool of mud and water, with a sprained wrist and a bite on my leg.
"Why didn't you hold him?" shouted Ribwood.
"I couldn't," I answered. "I saved your clean-up, and he got some of the lead. Besides, I know who he is."
"You don't! Who is he?"
"Pat Doogan."
"You don't say. Well, I'm darned. You're sure?"
"Swear it in Court?"
"I will."