I turned in the direction of Devonport
and mounted. I felt a bit shaky at first, for, apart from the fact
that I was worn out and pretty near starving, I had not been on a
machine for over three years. However, after wobbling wildly from side
to side, I managed to get the thing going, and pedalled off down the
centre of the road as steadily as my half-numbed senses would allow.

For perhaps a quarter of a mile the ground kept fairly level, then,
breasting a slight rise, I found myself at the top of a hill. I shoved
on the brake and went slowly round the first corner, where I got an
unexpected surprise. From this point the road ran straight away down
through a small village, across a bridge over the river, and up a
short steep slope on the farther side.

I took in the situation at a glance, and, releasing my brake, I let
the old bike have her head. It certainly wouldn't suit me to have to
dismount in the village and walk up the opposite slope, and I was much
too exhausted to do anything else unless I could take it in a rush.

Down I went, the machine flying noiselessly along and gathering pace
every yard. I had nearly reached the bottom and was just getting ready
to pedal, when all of a sudden, I caught sight of something that
almost paralyzed me. Right ahead, in the centre of the village square,
stood a prison warder. His back was towards me and I could see the
moonlight gleaming on the barrel of his carbine.

CHAPTER III

A DUBIOUS REFUGE

I was going so fast that everything seemed to happen simultaneously.
I had one blurred vision of him spinning round and yelling to me to
stop: then the next moment I had flashed past him and was racing
across the bridge.

Whether he recognized me for certain I can't say. I think not, or he
would probably have fired sooner than he did: as it was, my rush had
carried me three quarters of the way up the opposite hill before he
could make up his mind to risk a shot.

Bang went his carbine, and at the same instant, with a second loud
report, the tire of my back wheel abruptly collapsed. It was a good
shot if he had aimed for it, and what's more it came unpleasantly
near doing the trick. The old bike swerved violently, but with a wild
wrench I just succeeded in righting her. For a second I heard him
shouting and running behind me, and then, working like a maniac, I
bumped up the rest of the slope, and disappeared over the protecting
dip at the top.

Of my progress for t