They held their breaths. Voices! No doubt of it. And then, faintly from a distance, a call of:
"Bobbie! O Bobbie! Bob—bie!"
Don forgot that he was a woods fugitive. "That's Andy's voice," he shouted. "We're almost out. Come on, Tim. Rush for it."
They gave no care now to what noise they made. Don felt Tim take his arm to help him. He hobbled and hopped and squirmed, and only paused when the tender ankle brought him up wincing and shivering.
"Easy," said Tim. "No hurry. See that opening? We're almost out. Easy now."
But Don found it agony to go slow. Suppose they were gobbled here within sight of victory! He took another chance on a hobbling run. Around a clump of trees, straight ahead, another turn—and there was the wide, free outside in front of them.
"Safe!" gasped Don. No need to hurry now. He sank to the ground and rested his injured ankle. The Scoutmaster's Cup was theirs!
Three scouts, walking together, were disappearing over a knoll of ground in the distance.
"Andy!" Tim bellowed. "Andy Ford!"
One of the scouts looked around and pointed. He shouted to someone in the distance. Then he and his companions came forward on a wild run.