The light flashed by the bush; for some reason, it did
not strike it directly. That gave him a respite. Fortunately they were
looking for footprints, not for their makers.
The moment they were by, Dick took the chance of making a noise, and pushed
through the bush, to reach the other side. And, just as the cry of the man
who first had seen the footprints sounded again, he got through. At once,
throwing off all attempt at silence, he started running, crouched low. He
was only a dozen feet from the wall. He leaped for a projection a few feet
up. By a combination of good luck and skill he reached it with his hands.
A moment later he had swarmed over the wall and dropped to the other side
just as a shot rang out behind. The bullet struck the wall; chipped
fragments of stone flew all over him. But he was not hurt, and he ran as he
had never known he could run, keeping to the side of the road, where he was
in a heavy shadow.
As soon as he could, he burst through a hedge on the side of the road
opposite the wall, and ran on, sheltered by the hedge, until, to his
delight, he plunged headfirst into a stream of water. The fall knocked him
out for a moment, but the cold water revived him, and he did not mind the
scraped knee and the barked knuckles he owed to the sharp stones in the bed
of the little brook.
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