Nearer--nearer--a moment more and he would be able to place his hand against the fence. He was holding his breath now; afterward he could never tell what was the slight noise he must have made. Or perhaps it was the sense that tells one when a person has silently entered a room that caused the figure--just as Pink, lying there on the sand and looking up, had made sure that it _was_ a figure and not a clump of sunflowers--to look around, up and down. Pink scrambled to his feet and plunged recklessly forward. The man, who had been sitting on the fence, quietly dropped down on the inner side. A stump fence is not easy to climb, and Pink was on the outer side, where the tangled masses of roots spread out into a _cheveau-de-frise_ which, in the dark, seemed insurmountable. When he had finally got to the top, at the expense of a few scratches, a disturbance in the weeds near the front of the house told him where the fugitive had taken refuge. He promptly set up a shout. “Ho-o-ho!” came simultaneously from Smiley and Beveridge. “Here he is!” “Where?” “In the--” Pink was balancing on the fence. Before he could finish his shout a revolver shot sounded from the house, and he went tumbling down into the enclosure. “What's that! Are you hit?” “No--just lost my balance. Close in--he's in the house.” He was getting to his feet during this speech and feeling himself, not sure, in spite of his statement, whether it was the noise or the bullet that had upset him. But he could find no trace of a wound. “Keep your places!” Beveridge was calling to the others. “Keep your places! Now then, Mr. Spencer, we have you cornered. You can have your choice of giving up now or being starved out. Which will it be?” No answer from the house. “Speak up! I don't propose to waste much more time on you.” This time the fugitive decided to reply; but his reply took the form of a second shot, sent carefully toward the spot in the weeds from which the voice seemed to be coming. “Hi!” shouted Pink, “did he get you?” “No. Shut up, will you?” The man with the revolver was plainly an old hand, for now he fired a third time; and the shot came dangerously near, whether by luck or otherwise, to shutting up the speaker for all time. Beveridge dropped hastily behind a log that lay at his feet. Then, disgusted with himself, he scrambled boldly up and stood on the log.