the latter was hanging a little back.

At the next moment he was being carried clean through the lines of the
Wolf Patrol. They had separated, and had been searching busily at the
second place where he had thrown them off. Not one glanced at the
familiar sight of a big waggon rolling back to the town, for as it
passed, Billy Seton raised the patrol call to tell his companions that
he had found the trail. All rushed towards him to resume the hunt, and
away they went.

As soon as they were out of sight up jumped Chippy, swung himself over
the tail-board, and dropped into the road. He dived at once into the
bushes which bordered the way, and the waggoner never knew that he had
given anyone a lift. Now Chippy set himself to track the trackers. He
followed them up as fast as he could go, taking advantage of every
patch of cover, and holding his ball in his hand ready to fire.

He saw the first Wolf at the foot of the ridge; this was Billy Seton.
The track had again been lost on a hard, stony patch where Chippy had
stepped very lightly and carefully. The Wolves had separated, and
Billy became an easy prey. He was bending down, carefully examining
every twig, every inch of soft soil, when something hit him on the
right ear and dropped to the ground. For a moment Billy stared in
wonder at the queer rag-ball; then the truth broke upon him--he had
been knocked out. He was no longer a pursuer; he was dead.

He looked up, and saw Chippy's queer old felt hat poked out of a
bramble thicket some eight yards away.

'Got yer,' murmured Chippy in his husky whisper. 'Don't gie me away!'

Billy checked the exclamation which was rising to his lips, for he saw
at once how unfair it would be to betray Chippy's presence. He
approached the bush, and tossed the rag ball back.

'All right,' he said quietly. 'I'll go to the rear; I'm done for.'

'Thanks; you're a straight un,' returned Chippy, and sank into the
depths of the bramble thicket and crawled on like a snake.

The next Wolves he saw were running in a pair--Nos. 7 and 8. They had
their heads together over a mark, and were debating what it meant, if
it did mean anything. It was a long shot, but Chippy did not hesitate.
He took a ball in each hand and hung for a second on his aim. He was a
first-rate thrower.

It was a favourite sport in Skinner's Hole to cork an empty bottle,
toss it far out into the river, and give each player three shots to
knock the neck off.