Suddenly he straightened himself with a radiant face, and exclaimed:
“I have it, Reube! We’ll trick his exasperated bullship and catch the Dido yet!”
But while the words were yet on his lips the bull lifted his head high, gazed out across the field for a second or two, and then dashed off at the same terrific gallop which had so nearly proved disastrous to our heroes. He had seen a burly, red-shirted figure traversing the upper corner of his field. It was seldom, indeed, that anyone other than his master, the only man he feared, presumed to enter the precincts of his sway, and here, in one morning, were three trespassers. The bull, blind with rage, charged upon the red-shirted figure, and the red-shirted figure, after facing him for a few seconds, turned and fled for the fence.
“It’s John Paul! He’ll get away safe enough,” said Reube. “But what’s your plan?”
“Got a better one by this time, old man,” replied Will, dropping out of the tree—“just to cut while his bullship is otherwise engaged.” And side by side the two sped on toward the shelter of the alders.
Before they got far the bull, having routed red-shirt and snorted at him loudly through the rails, turned, discovered their flight, and came once more thundering at their heels. But this time he had allowed his rivals too much handicap. Before he could get anywhere near them Will and Reube were among the alders. Once there, the big red bull could not match their speed. He floundered, foaming and grunting, through the shallow pools, and the deeper ones he had to skirt.
The boys, on the other hand, sprang lightly from root to hillock, from hillock to elastic, reedy tuft, swinging across the pools on the long, bending stems of the alders, and soon leaving their persecutor far behind. They reached the fence, vaulted it, emerged upon the open marsh, and there before them, still half a mile away, was the Dido, wheeling gracefully out from the mouth of the creek.
The bull swerved slightly and shot past.