Eli's Children Part 104

"Fine games there is up here zometimes, zir," said the man, who was glad to find a good listener. "The convicts are out in gangs all over the moor, zir, working under the charge of warders. Zome's chipping stone, and zome's making roads; and now and then, zir, when there's a real thick fog, zome of 'em makes a run for it, and no wonder. I should if I had a chance, for they have a hard time of it up there."

"And do they get away?"

"Not often, zir," said the driver, as, with a half-repressed shudder, Luke listened to the man's words, for like a flash they had suggested to him the possibility of Cyril Mallow trying to effect his escape. "You zee the warders look pretty zharp after them, and their orders are strict enough. Once they catch sight of a man running and he won't surrender, they zhoot him down."

"So I have heard."

"Yes, zir, they zhoot un down like as if they were dogs. They're bad uns enough, I dessay, and deserves it, but zomehow it zeems to go again the grain, zir, that it do, to zhoot 'em."

"Then you would not shoot one if you were a warder?" said Luke, hardly knowing what he spoke.

"I wouldn't if I was a zojer, sir. Poor beggars' liberty's sweet, and may be if they got away they'd turn over a new leaf. No, zir, I wouldn't zhoot 'em, and I wouldn't let out to the warders which way a runaway had gone. I'd scorn it," said the man, giving his horse a tremendous lash in his excitement.

"It does seem a cowardly thing to do."

"Cowardly, zir? It's worse," said the man, indignantly. "I call it the trick of a zneak; but the people about here do it fast enough for the zake of the reward."

"There, zir, I told you so," continued the man, after a quarter of an hour's progress, during which he had been pointing out pieces of scenery to inattentive ears. "The fog'll be on uz in vive minutes more."

They were descending a sharp hill as the man spoke, and in half the time he had named they were in the midst of a dense vapour, so thick that Luke fully realised the necessity for stopping if they wished to avoid an accident.

"I think we can get down here, zir, and across the next bit of valley, and then it will perhaps be clearer as we get higher up. Anyhow we'll try."

Keeping the horse at a walk, he drove cautiously on, finished the descent, went along a level for a short distance, and then they began once more to ascend.

"I'll try it for two or three hundred yards, zir," said the man, "and then if it don't get better we must stop and chance it."

What he meant by chancing it the driver did not explain, but as with every hundred yards they went the fog seemed thicker, he suddenly drew the rein and pulled his horse's nose-bag from beneath the seat.

"If you'll excuse me, zir, I'd get inside if I was you, and wait patiently till the wind springs up. These fogs are very raw and cold, and rheumaticky to strangers, and you arn't got your great-coat on."

"Hus.h.!.+ man, what's that?" said Luke, excitedly, as just then came the dull distant report of some piece.

"Zhooting," said the man, coolly, as he took out the horse's bit and strapped on his nose-bag.

"Do you mean that shot was fired at a convict?" said Luke, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Safe enough," said the man.

Luke leaped down.

"I think I'd draw up the windows, Mr Portlock," he said. "The fog is very dank and chilly now."

"Won't you come in?"

"Thanks, no. Draw up the windows. I'll stop and chat with the man. I dare say the mist will soon pa.s.s away."

As the windows were drawn up, Luke uttered a sigh of relief, for it was horrible to him that Sage should hear what was going on, and just then there was another report, evidently nearer.

"I thought they'd be at it," said the man. "Mind me smoking, zir?"

"No: go on; but don't speak so loudly. I don't want the lady inside to hear."

"All right, zir. Beg pardon," said the man, lighting his pipe.

"They're sure to make a bolt for it on a day like this. Hear that, zir?

I hope they won't zhoot this way, for a rifle ball goes a long way zometimes."

"Yes, I heard," said Luke, feeling an unwonted thrill of excitement in his veins. "That shot could not have been far off."

"Half a mile, or maybe a mile, zir," replied the man. "It's very hard to tell in a fog. Zounds is deceiving. There goes another. It's hot to-day, and no mistake."

Just then they heard a distant shout or two answered in another direction, and once more all was still.

"Let's see, zir," said the driver, who stood leaning against his horse, and puffing unconcernedly away, perfectly cool, while Luke's blood seemed rising to fever heat; "it's just about zigs months since that I was driving along here after a fog, and I come along a gang carrying one of their mates on a roughly-made stretcher thing, with half-a-dozen warders with loaded rifles marching un along. The poor chap they was carrying had made a bolt of it, zir, but they had zeen and fired at him; but he kept on, and they didn't find him for three hours after, and then they run right upon him lying by one of the little ztreams. Poor chap, he was bleeding to death, and that makes 'em thirsty, they zay. Anyhow, they found him scooping up the water with his hand, and drinking of it, and as he come up alongside of me he zmiled up at me like, and then he zhut his eyes."

"Did he die?" asked Luke, hoa.r.s.ely.

"There was an inquest on him two days after, zir. Lor! they think nothing of shooting down a man."

The fog was now denser than ever--so thick, that from the horses head where Luke stood the front of the fly was hardly visible. He was thinking with a chill of horror of the possibility of any such incident occurring that day, when once more there was a shout and a shot, followed by another; and, to Luke's horror, the window of the fly was let down.

"Why, what do they find to shoot here?" said the Churchwarden, sharply; "hares or wild deer?"

"Men, zir," said the driver, quickly; and as he spoke there was a loud panting noise, and a dimly-seen figure darted out of the mist at right angles to the road and dashed heavily against the horse, to fall back with a heavy groan.

PART THREE, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE CONVICT'S ESCAPE.

The quiet, half-asleep horse, dreamily hunting for grains of corn amidst a great deal of chaff, threw up its head and made a violent plunge forward, but was checked on the instant by the driver.

"What is it?" cried Portlock, leaping from the fly, as Sage uttered a cry.

By this time Luke was trying to lift the man, who had fallen almost at his feet, and drawing him away from the horse's hoofs, where he lay in imminent danger of being kicked.

As far as Luke could see, he was a tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered fellow, and it needed not the flyman's information for him to know that it was a convict--his closely-cropped hair and hideous grey dress told that more plainly than words could tell.

"What does it mean?" said the Churchwarden again. "Some one hurt?"

As he spoke, Luke Ross, who had laid the man down, uttered an exclamation of horror. His hands were wet with blood.

"He is wounded!" said Luke, in a whisper, as he drew out his handkerchief, and sank upon one knee. "Don't let Mrs Mallow come near."

His words of warning were too late, for just then the figure of Sage Mallow seemed to loom out of the fog, coming timidly forward with outspread hands like a person in the dark.

"He's. .h.i.t hard," said the driver. "Poor chap! there's no escape for him."