down-stream. That must be friend Jack. He waited no longer, but dived
into the bushes in the direction of the summit. He was congratulating
himself on being out of danger--already he was more than half way up
the hill--when suddenly he received a terrible shock. From the bushes
to his left, not ten yards from where he stood, came the clear, sharp
sound of a whistle. The sound was repeated, and this time an answer
came from far out to his right. Before he could move another whistle
joined in, again from the left, but farther off and higher up the hill
than the first he had heard. He recalled what Grey had said about
'millions' of keepers. The expression, he thought, had understated the
true facts, if anything. He remembered the case of Babington. It was a
moment for action. No guile could save him now. It must be a stern
chase for the rest of the distance. He drew a breath, and was off like
an arrow. The noise he made was appalling. No one in the wood could
help hearing it.

'Stop, there!' shouted someone. The voice came from behind, a fact
which he noted almost automatically and rejoiced at. He had a start at
any rate.

'Stop!' shouted the voice once again. The whistle blew like a steam
siren, and once more the other two answered it. They were all behind
him now. Surely a man of the public schools in flannels and gymnasium
shoes, and trained to the last ounce for just such a sprint as this,
could beat a handful of keepers in their leggings and heavy boots.
Barrett raced on. Close behind him a crashing in the undergrowth and
the sound of heavy breathing told him that keeper number one was doing
his best. To left and right similar sounds were to be heard. But
Barrett had placed these competitors out of the running at once. The
race was between him and the man behind.