sober stride. Louder it grew and louder yet, until once more Tom heard the laboured breath of untrained runners: he heard them pass the cart, one each side; and then, just as he himself had stopped on overhauling it, so did they.
“I see nothing of your man,” said one. “Let’s ask this chap if he has.”
“We might do worse. Hey, driver! Wake up there, will you?”
“What’s the row?”
“You’re asleep!”
“What’s that to you?”
“Everything—when you’re in charge of a horse and cart.”
The man promptly denied having been asleep at all; was asked if he had seen the fugitive; and wanted to know what he was like.
Tom heard himself most inaccurately described. “And I ought to know, because I’ve chased him for a mile already; and only lost him because my comrade was wounded and couldn’t run,” added the ingenious officer.
“Well, what if I did see him?”
“We’re just at the fork; you must have seen which way he went, and you’ve got to tell us.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“Refuse! Why, he’s a desperate burglar, who’s about done for two of us already! Refuse away—but you come along with us.”
“Oh, all right, I did see him,” declared the carter, to Tom’s momentary horror; “but I call it wery ’ard, makin’ one pore chap split on another.”
“And which way did he go when he came to the fork just ahead here?”
