“So we are!” cried we, and hue and cry was made for Cad Prog forthwith.
We sighted him as we turned the corner. He was making straight for the market. Perhaps to get an axe, I thought, or to hide, or to tell my uncle!
“Come on!” was the shout.
It’s wonderful how a short sharp chase warms up the blood even of a small boy of twelve. Before we were half down the street, even Bates had no thought left of deserting, and we all four pressed on, each determined not to be last.
The fugitive Prog kept his course to the market, but there doubled suddenly and bolted down Side Street. That was where he lived; he was going to run into his hole then, like a rabbit.
We gained no end on him in the turn, and were nearly up to him as he reached the door of his humble home.
He bolted in—so did we. He bolted up stairs—so did we. He plunged headlong into a room where was a little girl rocking a cradle—so did we. Then began a wild scuffle.
“Catch him! Take his cap off!” cried Bobbins.
“He hasn’t got a cap!” cried Rasper—“butcher-boys never have!”
“Then pull off his apron!” was the cry.