"Get in the water! Get in the water!" shouted Sergeant Bradridge. "With his hands fast together he'll be drownded like a dog wi' a brick round his neck!" "If he's carried under the bridge you'll lose him sure as death. Oh, my head! an' I never said a hard word to the man." They waded in the rolling reaches of Dean Burn, but found nothing; then, at the sergeant's direction, his men prepared to make a drag that they might scrape the bottom of the river. "There's scarce water to drown a sheep," said a soldier. "Are you sure of this chap?" he added, and looked at Putt. Tom, still nearly up to his waist in the river, took the insult ill. "Sure o' me, you gert cock-eyed lobster! Sure o' me! Ban't your officer my own uncle? Better you comed in the water to help than talk against your betters. But you'm too frightened of wetting your pipe-clay and getting more work! Do a man have his jaw split for fun? I hope as you'll be shot first time ever you go to war; an' a good riddance!" "All the same," answered the soldier, "there was a cart full of straw went by ten minutes agone. Might be wise to overtake it and see that all's open and honest." "I never took my eyes off the prisoner's head," declared Bradridge. "I suppose you'll not call my sight in question, Private Chugg?" "No, sergeant; no man living's got a sharper eye; but there's heads and there's hats. How if his head weren't under his hat when you see'd it 'pon the mound there?" "Three of you run up along after thicky cart, an' us'll scour the river banks," said Bradridge; "an' if there's any hookem-snivey dealings, Thomas Putt, 'tis you who will swing at Exeter, not t'other." "You'll be sorry for that speech, Uncle Sep, when us gets his gashly carkiss out the water," answered Tom calmly. "He's here, I tell you--sunk down into some hole at the bottom--and dead as a hammer by now. An' if he ban't here, where is he? Tell me that?" The soldiers hunted and probed without success; then they went down the stream and searched beneath the bridge and in every place where a fugitive might lurk with his head above water. Meanwhile others, led by Private Chugg, ran fast, and soon overtook the cart that had conveyed John Lee. It stood half-way up a steep hill in the woods, with a stone stuck beneath one wheel while the horse rested. Without ceremony, and despite fierce protests from Tom Putt's friend, the soldiers pitched the entire contents of this vehicle into the road. But they found nothing. Their prisoner had left his unpleasant quarters ten minutes before, and was now half a mile away in the deep woods of Dean. Throughout that night the screech owls heard a steady sound like their own harsh voices, but subdued to a murmur. It was John at his handcuffs. To separate them proved a difficult task, even with Tom Putt's file; but that done, the man was quickly free.