“See here,” he managed to gasp between his labored breathing, “let up! You must have taken me for some one else.”
There was no reply.
“If I could only get to that horse!” thought Tom.
He sprang away, with the other lunging heavily at his heels.
Dashing madly toward the frightened animal he loosened the picket pin with a lusty kick. Then, driven to close quarters, faced about.
The fierce struggle was renewed. The shadows danced faster. The hard, deep breathing of both grew louder. Only the Rambler’s speed kept him out of the other’s clutches. The realization that once in his enemy’s grip he would be rendered helpless nerved him to continue the resistance with all his strength and resourcefulness.
The man’s silence, the broad-brimmed hat pulled low, so as to conceal his features, and his evident determination to win at all hazards filled him with an alarm he had never felt before.
An idea had occurred to Tom; and, putting it into execution, he managed to work his way out of the hollow, at length reaching a point many yards distant from the camp.
And now he felt that the instant to make his decisive stroke had arrived. It was a stroke which would mean either victory or defeat. With an abruptness which took his adversary completely by surprise, the lad swung to one side; then, with head lowered, made a mad dash for the camp.
Never, even in his base stealing for the “Kingswood High,” had Tom’s legs moved with such extraordinary rapidity. In his ears were ringing the heavier footfalls of the pursuer, who was putting forth every effort to overtake him.