Will of the Mill | Page 5

the mill, run for the stepping-stones, where he could have crossed and made for the rough hiding-places known to him on the other side of the stream; or he might have dodged for the garden-gate, darted through, and made for the zig-zag path leading to the open moorland; but instead of this, he dashed down to the waterside, ran along by it, and then took the ascending path right up the glen, getting more and more out of breath, and with Will panting heavily close behind.
"Oh, you chucklehead!" cried the latter, huskily. "Why did you come along here? You knew we couldn't go far."
"It's all right. He won't follow. He'll be tired directly; he's so fat."
"I don't care," cried Will, stealing a look over his shoulder; "fat or thin, he's coming along as hard as he can pelt."
"Yes, but he's about done."
"He isn't, I tell you; he's coming faster than you can go. Go along: look sharp!"
The boys ran on, Josh getting more and more breathless every moment, while he began to lose heart as he heard the artist shouting to him to stop.
"Here, Will," he cried, "which way had I better go? Up the long crack, or make for the fox's path?"
"One's as bad as the other," cried Will. "Fox's path. Here, go on faster. Let me lead; I know the way best. I never saw such an old chucklehead. Why did you come this way?"
He brushed by his companion as he spoke, his legs making a whishing sound as he tore through clumps of fern and brake, running on and on over the rapidly-rising ground till the path was at an end, and they drew closer to a spot where the rocks closed in, forming a cul de sac, unless they were willing to take a leap of some twenty feet into a deep pool, or climb up the rocky wall just in front.
"We can't jump," panted Will.
"No," half whispered Josh. "Oh, what a mess we are in! You will have to beg his pardon, Will."
"You'll have to hold your tongue, or else we shall be caught. It's all right; come on. I can get up here."
The boy proved it by springing at the rocky face, catching a projecting block and the tufts of heath and heather, kicking down earth and stone as he rose, and scrambling up some fifteen feet before gaining a resting-place, to pause for a moment to look down and see how his companion was getting on.
To his horror, Josh was almost at the bottom of the wall, and, scarlet with fury and exertion, the artist panting heavily about two score yards behind.
"I've got you, you dogs! It's no use, I've got you!"
"Oh!" groaned Will, ready to give up, wondering the while whether the artist would thrash him with his elastic maul-stick.
"No, he hasn't," cried Josh. "Run, run! Never mind me."
"Shan't run," snarled Will, between his teeth. "Here, catch hold of my hands."
He lay down on his chest, hooking his feet in amongst the tough roots of the heather.
"Come on, I tell you! Catch hold."
Obeying the stronger will, Josh made a desperate scramble, putting into it all the strength he had left, and, regardless of the angry shouts of the artist, he scrambled up sufficiently high for Will to grasp him by the wrists. He could do no more, for his feet slipped from beneath him, and he hung helpless, and at full length, completely crippling his companion, who had the full weight dependent on his own failing strength.
Encouraged by this, the breathless artist made his final rush, and succeeded in getting Josh by the ankles, holding on tightly in spite of the boy's spasmodic movement, for as he felt the strong hands grasp his legs, he uttered a yell, and began to perform motions like those of a swimming frog.
"Be quiet! Don't!" roared Will. "You'll have me down."
"Let go, you dog!" shouted the artist. "I've got him now."
"Let go yourself," cried Will, angrily. "Can't you see you are pulling me down?"
"Oh, yes, I can see. Let go yourself."
"Shan't!" growled Will, through his set teeth. "Kick out, Josh, and send him over."
"I can't!" cried Josh.
"He'd better! I'd break his neck."
"Never mind what he says, Josh. Kick! Kick hard!"
"Kick! I've got you tight. I could hold you for a wee--wee--"
He was going to say "week," but Fate proved to him that this was a slight exaggeration on his part, and instead of finishing the word week he gave vent to a good loud "oh!" Tor the heather roots had suddenly given way, and the three contending parties descended the sharp slope with a sudden rush, to be brought up short amongst the stones that accompanied them in a contending heap, forming a struggling mass for a few moments, before the strongest gained the day, the