Tug had explained to his runners, before they started out, that team-work was what would count—that he wished his men to keep together, and that they were to take their orders all from him.
After the first enthusiasm of a good brisk start to get steam and interest up, Tug slowed his pace down to such a gait as he thought could be comfortably maintained through the course.
The Brownsville leader, Orton, however, being a brilliant cross-country runner himself, set his men too fierce a pace, and soon had upon his hands a pack of breathless stragglers.
Tug vigorously silenced any attempt at conversation among his men, and advised them to save their breath for a time soon to come when they would need it badly.
His path led into a heavy woods, very gloomy under the dim moonlight; and he had many an occasion to yell with pain and surprise as a low branch stung him across the head. But all he permitted himself to exclaim was a warning cry to the others:
"Low bridge!"
The grove was so blind (save for the little clearing at Roden's Knoll, which Tug and Sawed-Off recognized with a groan of pride) that the men's shins were barked and their ankles turned at almost every other step, it seemed. But Tug would not permit any of them the luxury of complaint.
In time they were out of the wood and into the open. But here it seemed that their troubles only increased; for, where the main difficulty in the forest was to avoid obstacles, the chief trouble in the plain was to conquer them. There were many barbed-wire fences to crawl through, the points clutching the bare skin and tearing it painfully at various spots. The huge Sawed-Off suffered most from these barbs, but he only gasped:
"I'm punctured."
There were long, steep hills to scramble up and to jolt down. There were little gullies to leap over, and brooks to cross on watery stepping-stones that frequently betrayed the feet into icy water.