Under Wolfe's Flag; or, The Fight for the Canadas. Rowland Walker
Their faces turned a shade paler, but a stern heroic light shone from their eyes, as they calmly awaited events.
A moment later the constable and the keeper came struggling through the brushwood.
"Here they are, Beagle! Caught at last. It's the two of them. The same old birds," cried Old Click joyfully, as he caught sight of the prisoners. "Good dog! Good old Charlie! There's a dog for you, Beagle! Not another like him for twenty miles around. See how he's run the vagabonds to earth!"
"He's a good dog, I admit, Mr. Click, but he hasn't quite run them to earth yet, seeing that they're a good forty feet above the ground; but we've got them tree'd and cornered this time, proper, eh?"
"Ho, there! Come down, ye young varmint. Come down this minute, or t'ull be worse for you," shouted the keeper.
"I shall come down when I please," said Jamie.
"All right, you son of a poacher. I'll sit down till you do as I tell you. I don't mind a rest and a smoke, but I won't move from this spot till you do come down."
"Won't you move, though? You old fox. You shan't stay there if you have tree'd us. Take that, and that," and as he spoke Jamie hurled with all his might a chunk of dead wood, which he had torn from a withered branch. "I'll teach you to call me names. My father was a better man than you, any day."
The missile hit the keeper on the knee, as he sat on the grass, and gave him a nasty shock. Up he jumped in a rage, and for a couple of minutes he fairly danced and limped around the tree, in spite of his determination a minute ago not to move. He clenched his fist and shook it at the youngsters.
"I'll have the law on ye–ye young jackanapes. What's that, Beagle, but 'battery and assault,' and what's the penalty for it?"
"Twenty strokes of the birch, Mr. Click, and ten years' imprisonment, or, more likely, transportation for life."
"Aye, that's it–transportation. Like your father got, you young gallows-bird."
This second taunt about his father made the blood rush to the lad's face, and he hurled another chunk of wood at the irate keeper, which narrowly missed his head, but hit the hound instead, which set up a frightful yell and bolted into the wood, and despite all the blandishments of its master refused to come anywhere near the zone of fire again.
The boys were as agile as monkeys aloft, and they quickly got several more pieces of dead timber ready for their captors. Things were turning out much better than they feared, and they were not having the worst of it, so far, at least. How it would all end it was impossible to say, but there was just this chance, that they might drive away the two men by their determined assault, until an opportunity occurred for them to slip down the tree; and once on the ground, with even a dozen yards start, they could easily leave their pursuers behind. As for the hound–well, another chunk of wood would about settle him.
Both the keeper and the constable were now very chary about showing themselves, after the narrow escape of the former, for the boys were so expert with the missiles, and so determined in their opposition that the two men kept behind the tree trunks, some twenty or thirty feet away. Both boys had their pea-shooters, with a plentiful supply of dry wicken-berries, and whenever their opponents showed so much as an inch of face they were mercilessly pelted.
"You young rascals. You shall pay dearly for this. Do ye know ye're insulting the law?" cried the constable, trying hard to dodge the pea-shooters as he spoke.
"Why don't you go home?" called out Jack. "If either of you come near the tree again, we'll break every bone in your body. We've plenty of wood here."
This game was continued for more than half-an-hour, at the end of which time the two men got behind a thick holly bush near by, and began to consult together.
The next moment the boys would have been free, for while the keepers were thus engaged, their prisoners were preparing to slide down the tree and make a dash for it, when, observing this, the men rushed towards the tree just in time to prevent them.
"Come back, Jamie! Come back–" cried his companion, hurling at the same instant another piece of wood at Beagle, who made a desperate spring, and tried to catch hold of Jamie's legs, as he hung dangling from a branch. The missile took effect, and the constable quickly retreated, roaring like the "Bull of Bashan."
The next moment Old Click emerged from the wood with an armful of bracken, with which he quickly kindled a fire. Soon a thick column of smoke arose, and drifted towards the tree. More and more bracken and brushwood were piled on, and the smoke became chokingly dense up there in the tree, for the fire had been lit with the express purpose of smoking them out.
The boys plied them valiantly with wood-chunks and wicken-berries, but their ammunition soon failed them. The smoke had become dreadful now. They were nearly choked with it, and were already half-blinded. What could they do? Still they held out. They mounted to the very top of the tree, and sat there with their faces buried in their hands to keep that suffocating smoke from their eyes and nostrils.
"Coming down now, sir?" asked the keeper, who had now begun to light another fire at the root of the tree, for he saw that there was no more ammunition aloft, but he had counted without his host.
"No, you villains! Take that!–and that!" shouted Jack, at the same time hurling down through the smoke first one boot and then another, as a last resort.
The second boot caught Old Click in the middle of the back as he was stooping down to tend the fire, and made him give vent to a yell which resounded through the woods. This incident evoked a bit of high-sounding English that I will not here repeat–suffice it to say that the yell brought Beagle, who had gone to fetch a woodman's axe, running to the spot to see what had happened.
The keeper sat down on the grass for a few moments, and the boys were afraid that they had killed him, but in a little while he sprang up again and cried out angrily–
"I'll give you two minutes to come down, gentlemen. At the end of that time I shall cut down the tree."
There was no answer, and at the end of the two minutes the keeper spoke again.
"Will you come down and go quietly to the lock-up?" Still no answer, and the next moment–
"Chip!–chip!" went the axe, and at every stroke the tall tree shook. The trunk was more than half-way through now, and the whole stem trembled with the blows, when a voice called from aloft, through the smoke–
"Stop! Mr. Click, if you please."
Quite willing to take a brief rest and to enjoy the discomfort of the youngsters, the keeper stayed his axe for a moment.
"We'll come down, Mr. Click, if you won't take us to the lock-up. We've only had six of your beastly trout, and they were not worth two-pence each, but we're willing to pay you for them, and to come down, if you won't take us before the magistrates. We've done nothing to deserve it," said Jack, as he prepared to descend.
"Do you hear that, Beagle? That's what I call trying to bribe an honest man. What do you call it?"
"That's it–bribery and corruption," replied the constable.
"The terms of surrender are unconditional, you young jackanapes." And with that Click went to work with the axe again. The tree quivered, and gave signs that it was about to fall.
"Stop! Stop! We're coming down." And then, realising that the game was up, the two chums quietly slid down the trunk into the arms of their captors, and were triumphantly marched off to the lock-up.
It was getting dark when they reached this ugly little building, but they were unceremoniously thrust inside, and when the key grated in the lock and the two men had left them, with only the rats for their companions, they were just a little bit "skeered."
"Jamie! Where are you?" asked Jack, when they had been left alone in the silence and the darkness for some minutes.
"Here! Here!" cried his companion, and they crept along the wall until they were able to touch each other. Then they cowered down in a corner, against the wall.
"We'll get out of this before morning, else my name's not Jack Elliot, and then we'll do that which we've often spoken about. We'll run away–we'll go