They were now at a considerable height, but still a long way from the top of the hill. The scrub was thinning out and the ground becoming more and more stony. The worst of it was that the ravine up which they were travelling was getting steadily more shallow. A very little farther, and it ended altogether. Beyond, was nothing but bare hill-side, where they would—barring the scattered rocks—be in full view of the enemy.
Ken dropped to a walk.
'This won't do, Roy. Once we're out in the open, we shall be the very finest kind of targets.'
Roy shrugged his great shoulders.
'There's nothing else for it. We can't make a ravine. What price taking up a position here behind these rocks and trying to fight 'em off? We've got plenty of cartridges.'
Ken shook his head.
'No earthly use. They could get round above us. We shouldn't have a dog's chance.'
'Then we'd best shift on topside,' replied Roy coolly. 'They can't get above us there unless they raise a balloon. Come on, old man, we can dodge in and out among these rocks.'
Ken glanced back down the hill. Already the first of their pursuers were in sight round the curve of the ravine, barely three hundred yards away. They were jogging along quite steadily. It was clear that they felt absolutely sure of their men—so sure that there was no need to hurry. Kemp, conspicuous in his ugly German khaki, was shepherding them upwards.
Ken bit his lip. Inwardly he vowed that he would never be taken alive by the ex-steward. He had a pretty shrewd idea of what his fate and Roy's would be if they fell into Kemp's clutches.