This curious insulation, the way in which light blinded their pickets of alarm, was the great danger of salmon-spearing. The glare in the tree-tops would always give them away if Badger and his men were on the watch; and one frosty, owl-haunted night in the middle of November they had a narrow shave. Mick Connor was leaning over the bank with lifted spear when Abner heard the breaking of a stick. A man cursed as he floundered in a ditch not twenty yards away. Abner, who doubted the quickness of Atwell, smothered the flare with his hands. It scorched the horny skin of his palms, but it gave the signal of alarm. On that side of the pool the current had undercut the marly bank so that the poachers could not be seen, but Abner’s ears recognised the sound of Badger’s voice. The keeper’s party ran towards the bank. A single man, the foremost, leapt down beside them, shouting that he had got them. Abner let out from the shoulder in the dark. His fist met the flesh of a man’s face. The man gave a cry. For all he knew it might have been the face of Curly Atwell, but it gave him a good feeling in the dark, for he felt instinctively that it was Badger’s. They left their spear on the bank, plunging into the swift stickle above the pool, and found refuge in a wood. Some one fired after them. He fired low, and the twigs snapped about them. Abner plunged on through the wood. He knew that he was running for his life. It was good to be running for his life. He went on crashing through the undergrowth of the wood battling with back-springing saplings, torn with briers, laughing, curiously, wildly exultant. He did not stop to think that he had lost touch with the others. In an affair of this kind each must look to himself. He only knew that he had escaped out of the mouth of danger. His head spun with the elation of his heart pumping blood into his brain. In that moment he felt that he had courage for anything, and it pleased him particularly to think that Badger had suffered this defeat. He emerged from the woods into open fields, so calm under the peace of night that it was hard to believe that any human violence had lately invaded them. Westward the quiet hills stood folded for the night. A gibbous moon rose languidly above the mists. He stood in the middle of the field, tingling to his finger-tips. He forgot that his legs were sodden with muddy water, so splendidly his body glowed. It was ridiculous to think of crossing the hills to Wolfpits, for it was no more than nine o’clock. This was not a time for sleep but for living. He turned his steps in the direction of the Pound House.