CHAPTER XXIII
AN OLD SCORE SETTLED
Sam, the Shark and Hagle made for the lake shore. This was not so much because of any far-seeing, definite plan, as because this was the line of least resistance, so to speak, and because the lake itself offered escape, should the fire cut them off from flight by land. Hagle displayed utter docility. He had done his utmost to evade capture, but, once in the custody of his pursuers, no lamb could have offered less resistance.
At this point there was still a fairly broad belt of woods which the fire had not penetrated, and Sam, presently, slackened his pace. Coming to a little glade, he pulled up.
“We’re all right now,” he told the others. “We’ve got a breathing spell—chance to rest and get our bearings.”
Jack Hagle sank weakly to the ground. The Shark sat down, and clasped his hands about his knees. Sam turned for inspection of their position. There was smoke in the air; the fire was visible through the trees; but by his calculation they could remain where they were for a time without rashness. Either the big fire was serving as a mighty torch or dawn was coming on; at all events, there was light enough in the glade to permit him to make out its extent and even to mark the expression of his comrades’ faces. The Shark was again his imperturbable self; Hagle was a “wreck,” as Sam himself phrased it.
There was a pause. Sam ended the silence.
“Jack!”
Hagle raised his head, but didn’t answer.
“Jack! What made you beat it—run away from us?”
“I——” Hagle’s voice was faint and tremulous. “I—I don’t know.”