THE CHOKING-OFF OF CHIPPY
'We'll make a man-hunt of it,' said Billy Seton. 'I suggest that
somebody lends him a pair of tracking-irons, and we give him a quarter
of an hour's start. When we come up to him we'll fire at him with
tennis-balls, as usual. If we hit him three times, he's dead. If he
hits one of us first, that man's dead, and out of the hunt.'
'Righto!' said Chippy. 'I've studied them rules. I'm ready.'
'And I'll lend the tracking-irons,' cried Dick Elliott.
Chippy put on the tracking-irons with immense pride and delight. He
had wondered so much what these things were, and to fasten a pair on
his feet, and to make tracks with them for a real patrol to pursue
him--it was simply great.
'Wait a bit!' said George Lee. 'We've got our tennis-balls to fire at
him; but how is he going to fire at us?'
'That's all right,' said Chippy. 'We've played that game. I've got
mine 'ere.'
He dived a hand into one of his wide-spreading pockets, and brought out
a ball.
'That isn't a tennis-ball,' said Arthur scornfully.
It was not. Chippy's funds did not run to tennis-balls. It was a
bottle-cork wrapped up in pieces of rag, and whipped into shape with
string.
'I'll tek my chance wi' it,' said Chippy calmly, and prepared to start.
The patrol laughed as he scuttled out of the pit, and Dick stood with
watch in hand to give him the proper law.
'He's a rum-looking beggar!' said Billy Seton, 'but I'll be hanged if
he isn't wide-o. And I reckon he stood it uncommonly well, the way you
jawed him, Arthur. He didn't get a bit raggy; he just hung on to his
chance of showing himself to be a boy scout.'
'Pooh!' said Arthur. 'This is turning the whole thing into piffle.
You fellows seemed to want to chivvy him, so I agreed just for the
joke. But it isn't likely that we shall recognise wharf-rats as
brother scouts!'
'Not likely!' cried No. 6, whose name was Reggie Parr; but the others
said nothing.
When time was up, away went the Wolf Patrol on the tracks which Chippy
Slynn had made, and for some distance they followed them at an easy
trot, for Chippy had posted straight ahead over grassy or sandy land,
on which the irons left clear traces. But within a mile and a half of
the sandpit the track was lost.
Arthur Graydon drove in his patrol-flag beside the last marks which
could be found, and ordered his scouts to separate and swing round in a
wide circle until the line was picked up again.
The tracks had ended beside the wide high-road which crossed the heath,
and half the patrol took one side of the road and half the other.
Within three minutes Dick Elliott raised the wild howl which was their
patrol-call, and everyone rushed towards him. He had found the trail.
It was on the further side of the high-road, and ran straight ahead
beside it, and on raced the Wolves along the tracks.
Chippy had observed how clear a trail he left, and when he came to the
high-road, he thought it was about time to throw his pursuers out a
little, for they could travel much faster than he could go in the
tracking-irons. So at the edge of the high-road down went his head and
up went his feet, and he walked across the smooth hard road on his
hands, leaving no trace, or such a trace as the Wolf Patrol were not
yet clever enough to pick up. With the tracking-irons safely hoisted
in the air, he went quite thirty yards before he turned himself right
side up again, and scuttled off. He went another mile, and practised
the same manoeuvre once more, and then he crept very warily forward,
for the land was rising to a ridge. Unless he crossed this ridge with
the utmost caution the boys behind him on the heath would see his
figure against the sky-line. He marked a place where the ridge was
crowned with gorse-bushes, and through these he wriggled his way,
receiving a hundred scratches, but troubling nothing about that.
On the other side the ridge went down even more steeply than by the
slope which Chippy had just ascended, and up this farther side a huge
waggon, drawn by four powerful horses, was slowly making its way.
As soon as Chippy saw the waggon an idea popped into his mind, and he
hurried forward to meet the great vehicle. He kept among the bushes so
that the driver did not see him. The latter, indeed, from his high
perch, was too busy cracking his whip over his team to urge them to the
ascent to see that small, gliding figure slipping through the gorse.
So Chippy dodged behind the waggon, swung himself up by the tail-board,
and climbed in as nimbly as a cat. The forepart of the waggon was full
of sacks of meal, and a heap of empty sacks lay against the tail-board.
In a trice he had hidden himself under the empty sacks, and lay there
without making sign or sound.
The waggon rolled on over the ridge, and soon Chippy heard the
long-drawn note of a Wolf's howl. He knew the patrol was now near at
hand, but he lay quite still, and peered out at the side of the
tail-board, for the latter was hanging a little back.
At the next moment he was being carried clean through the lines of the
Wolf Patrol. They had separated, and had been searching busily at the
second place where he had thrown them off. Not one glanced at the
familiar sight of a big waggon rolling back to the town, for as it
passed, Billy Seton raised the patrol call to tell his companions that
he had found the trail. All rushed towards him to resume the hunt, and
away they went.
As soon as they were out of sight up jumped Chippy, swung himself over
the tail-board, and dropped into the road. He dived at once into the
bushes which bordered the way, and the waggoner never knew that he had
given anyone a lift. Now Chippy set himself to track the trackers. He
followed them up as fast as he could go, taking advantage of every
patch of cover, and holding his ball in his hand ready to fire.
He saw the first Wolf at the foot of the ridge; this was Billy Seton.
The track had again been lost on a hard, stony patch where Chippy had
stepped very lightly and carefully. The Wolves had separated, and
Billy became an easy prey. He was bending down, carefully examining
every twig, every inch of soft soil, when something hit him on the
right ear and dropped to the ground. For a moment Billy stared in
wonder at the queer rag-ball; then the truth broke upon him--he had
been knocked out. He was no longer a pursuer; he was dead.
He looked up, and saw Chippy's queer old felt hat poked out of a
bramble thicket some eight yards away.
'Got yer,' murmured Chippy in his husky whisper. 'Don't gie me away!'
Billy checked the exclamation which was rising to his lips, for he saw
at once how unfair it would be to betray Chippy's presence. He
approached the bush, and tossed the rag ball back.
'All right,' he said quietly. 'I'll go to the rear; I'm done for.'
'Thanks; you're a straight un,' returned Chippy, and sank into the
depths of the bramble thicket and crawled on like a snake.
The next Wolves he saw were running in a pair--Nos. 7 and 8. They had
their heads together over a mark, and were debating what it meant, if
it did mean anything. It was a long shot, but Chippy did not hesitate.
He took a ball in each hand and hung for a second on his aim. He was a
first-rate thrower.
It was a favourite sport in Skinner's Hole to cork an empty bottle,
toss it far out into the river, and give each player three shots to
knock the neck off. Chippy was an easy winner at this game, and when a
thrower can hit the neck of a bottle dancing along with the stream he
isn't going to miss a boy.
'Hallo!' said No. 7, as something took him in the neck. No. 8 turned
to see what was the matter, and pop went a ball into his eye. A felt
hat rose from behind a neighbouring bush, and a finger beckoned.
'Why, it's the wharf-rat,' said No. 7. 'He's got us!'
They surrendered at once, for they could do no less, and Chippy sent
them to the rear, and crept on in search of fresh victims.
Suddenly he saw a patrol flag fluttering. Ah! that was the leader who
had bullyragged him. Chippy's heart gave a leap. If only he could bag
the proud leader, and show him that a scout could come out of Skinner's
Hole! That would be splendid. And Chippy went down flat on his face
and wriggled forward to work his way within firing distance.