“False trail!” groaned the hounds.
“Bad luck,” called Jim, the Sixer, “we must go back. We may get them yet.” And the hounds dashed off again across the field to get back to the old “scent.” But it was too much for Danny. He sank down, tired out.
“They can run!” he said. And he thought, a little sadly, that they would think him a rotter to have fallen out. “I stuck it as long as I could,” he said. “I did my best—I couldn’t do more.”
He was just going to start back to Headquarters when something happened which was the first step in the curious adventures that befell him from that day onwards.
“Swish-sh-sh!” sounded the tires of a bicycle on the muddy road, as it flew past him like a streak. The rider was bareheaded and seemed in an awful hurry. Then something happened that made Danny jump up and start running down the road for all he was worth, quite forgetful of his weary legs. A dog had jumped out from the hedge, and, in trying to avoid running over it, the cyclist had skidded badly, and now lay quite still on the road.
Danny panted down the muddy lane, hoping the man was not dead, but, before he reached the place where the accident had happened, the stranger had got up and was sitting on the bank, his head in his hands.
“Can I help you, sir?” said Danny eager to do a good turn.
The young man started and looked up at the boy with wild eyes; then peered about him and looked up and down the road, as if he were afraid of being followed. Blood was streaming down his face from a nasty gash in his forehead.
“Can I help you, sir?” repeated Danny. “Let me tie up your head—it’s bleeding badly.”
“Thank you,” said the young man in a shaky voice.