ying the extra risk of capture by "Eagles," added to the chance of
being chased by keepers. On this particular Saturday afternoon we had
penetrated into the depths of a favourite haunt named Patchley Wood.
The arms of an "Indian" at such times, I might explain, were a big
catapult, a pocketful of pebbles, and a short stick with a lump of lead
at the end, in shape somewhat resembling a life-preserver. This
weapon--known to us as a "squaler"--was capable of being flung with
great force and precision. With the whole of this outfit we were duly
provided.

We had been in the woods perhaps half an hour, and had lain down to
rest at the foot of a tree, when my companion's quick eye detected the
approach of the enemy, with the result that we immediately took flight
in the manner which has already been described.

At headlong speed we dashed off through the bushes, regardless of the
noise we made; for any hope we might hitherto have entertained of
escaping unobserved had been dispelled by the shout sent up by the
"Eagles" the moment we moved. On we ran, the enemy following hard in
pursuit, crashing through the underwood, while Liddle's voice rang out
yelling directions to his followers, heedless of the risk he ran of
attracting the notice of the keepers. If captured by the rival chief,
we knew we might expect no mercy; and though the pair of us were pretty
swift-footed, we felt that nothing short of a stroke of luck would save
us, for among the "braves" now in pursuit were some of the best runners
in the school.

To lessen still more our hope of escape, before us rose a gentle slope,
on which the underwood grew so sparse and thin as to render it certain
that we should be seen by our pursuers as we breasted the rise. We
laboured on up the hill, gasping for breath as we neared the top; then
a yell of triumph from behind, as our pursuers caught sight of us,
goaded us to pull ourselves together in one last effort to escape.

Plunging into the thickets, which now became again more dense, we had
not gone twenty yards when Miles caught his foot in a root, and came
down headlong. He recovered himself immediately from the shock of the
fall, and attempted to scramble to his feet, but sank down again with a
smothered cry of pain.

"I'm done for," he said. "I've twisted my ankle. Go on; don't wait!"

Anxious as I was to outdistance the "Eagles," I had certainly no
thought of leaving Miles to their tender mercies, and glancing