“I suppose I ought,” said Wally, relapsing into a smile. “Only . . . Oh, well. Now we’ve got to run, or we’ll never catch young Timsy.” [Illustration: “Norah had read it over his shoulder.”] _Jim and Wally_] [_Page 118_ [Illustration: “Then the little head appeared for an instant and she sprang into the water.”] _Jim and Wally_] [_Page 128_ CHAPTER VIII JOHN O’NEILL “A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay.” DRYDEN. “And we’re hanging out the sign From the Leeuwin to the Line: ‘This bit of the world belongs to US!’” THE words came floating down the hillside at the top of a cheery young baritone. Also down the hillside came sounds of haste—heavy footsteps, crashing undergrowth, and rustling of bracken. The hill sloped steeply, ending with an abrupt plunge into a boreen below: a little winding lane, walled in by high banks, clad with heather and furze, and all abloom with wild flowers. The main road ran westward, dusty and hot in the June sunlight; but the boreen was all in shade, twisting its way in and out between the hills. The dew was yet on its grass, though in the blossoming furze above, fringing the banks, the bees droned heavily, winging their busy way among the hot sweetness. The noise overhead came nearer, and there came into the song staccato notes never intended by the composer, as the singer half-slid, half-plunged, down the hillside, taking inequalities in the ground with long strides. Nevertheless, the voice persevered, happy, if disjointed, until it was just above the boreen. Then the song and the hurrying footsteps ceased together, and there was a pause. “Wire!” said Wally’s disgusted tones. “And barbed, at that! Didn’t we have enough in France!” The wire was half-hidden in the tangle of grass and furze; a tense strand twanged as his boot caught it in clambering over. His thin face showed for a moment, peeping over into the boreen. There was nothing to do but slither, and slither he did, landing in the little lane with a mighty thud, and bringing with him a shower of furze blossoms, and clattering stones and clods. They fell close to a man sitting on a fragment of rock and leaning back against the bank. He had not stirred at the commotion overhead, and now he sat motionless, looking up at the tall lad with a faint smile. “I beg your pardon!” said Wally, abashed. “I say. I hope nothing hit you?”