"He'll not soon overlook what I've said in that letter,
confound him."
He had not observed the approach of Randolph Shaw, who now stood, pipe
in hand, some twenty paces behind him in the road.
"What the devil are you doing?" demanded a strong bass voice. It had
the effect of a cannon shot.
His lordship leaped half out of his corduroys, turned with agonizing
abruptness toward the tall young man, and gasped "Oh!" so shrilly that
his horse looked up with a start. The next instant his watch dropped
forgotten from his fingers and his nimble little legs scurried
for territory beyond the log. Nor did he pause upon reaching that
supposedly safe ground. The swift glance he gave the nearby river was
significant as well as apprehensive. It moved him to increased but
unpolished haste.
He leaped frantically for the saddle, scorning the stirrups landing
broadside but with sufficient nervous energy in reserve to scramble
on and upward into the seat. Once there, he kicked the animal in the
flanks with both heels, clutching with his knees and reaching for the
bridle rein in the same motion. The horse plunged obediently, but came
to a stop with a jerk that almost unseated the rider; the sapling
swayed; the good but forgotten rein held firm.
"Ha!" gasped his lordship as the horrid truth became clear to him.
"Charge, Bonaparte!" shouted the man in the road.
"Soldiers?" cried the rider with a wild look among the trees.
"My dog," called back the other. "He charges at the word.
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