Henson scrambled
headlong over the wall and crashed through the thickets beyond.
Merritt pulled up, panting with his exertion.
"Gone to cover," he muttered. "I don't fancy I'll follow. The dogs there
might have a weakness for tearing my throat out and Henson will keep,
I'll just hang about here till daylight and wait for my gentleman. And
I'll follow him to the end of the earth."
Meanwhile Henson blundered on blindly, fully under the impression that
Merritt was still upon his trail. One of the hounds, a puppy three parts
grown, rose and playfully pulled at his coat. It was sheer play, but at
the same time it was a terrible handicap, and in his fear Henson lost all
his horror of the dogs.
"Loose, you brute," he panted. "Let go, I say. Very well, take that!"
He paused and brought the heavy stake down full on the dog's muzzle.
There was a snarling scream of pain, and the big pup sprang for his
assailant. An old, grey hound came up and seemed to take in the situation
at a glance. With a deep growl he bounded at Henson and caught him by the
throat. Before the ponderous impact of that fine free spring Henson went
down heavily to the ground.
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