Free The Maggie by James Dillon White

his ankles, the angry laird, armed with a shotgun, only a few yards away, he knew that once again he had allowed himself to be drawn into an indefensible position. If Mr Marshall heard . . . ! He wriggled despairingly as the ants began to crawl up his legs and was rebuked by the boy – ‘Ssssh!’ The laird, realising that the poachers were cornered at last, could afford to wait, and in fact it wasn’t long before the factor’s shout came faintly through the woods.
    â€˜Sir George! Where are ye, sir?’
    The laird bellowed with the full force of his lungs, ‘Over here! This way!’
    From his hiding place Pusey watched with growing apprehension. Common sense told him that there could be no escape, but while there was even a faint hope . . . He was in quite incredible discomfort. Exploring ants had reached the ridge of his knee, he was bathed in perspiration, but he dared not wriggle.
    â€˜Over here!’ The laird’s battle-cry struck terror in his suburban mind.
    Then, coming slowly up the hill, he saw the factor, still armed with his heavy stick, still looking utterly ferocious. Trailing behind was a stout constable.
    â€˜Where are ye, Sir George?’
    The laird went bellowing along the wood and the boy, with the keen eye of an opportunist, saw that this might be a chance. He whispered to Pusey, ‘When he gets around those bushes, run for it.’
    They waited tensely, and then as the laird went momentarily out of view they scrambled to their knees. They rose cautiously to their feet. For the moment they were hidden.
    Pusey heard the boy say, ‘Here, I’ve too much to carry. Don’t leave it. If they find it, we’re done,’ and he looked stupidly down at the pheasant he was holding. Before he could appreciate this further danger the boy was off down the hill and the laird’s bellow came booming through the trees.
    â€˜Over there!’
    Pusey looked wildly at the pheasant. He made as if to throw it down, then, remembering the boy’s warning, decided to hold it.
    â€˜There’s another one of them there. A man. Get him!’
    The laird’s frantic order was the last ingredient for panic. Pusey turned and ran for his life down the hill.
    It was many years since he had run more than a few yards for a bus or a train, and he was gratified, almost exhilarated, by his astonishing turn of speed. Once he had started down the steep hill he had only to keep his feet andnothing could catch him. He ran, stumbled, leaped; he warded himself from trees with his free hand. His jacket was open, his tie flying to the wind. Brambles, bracken, sticks, hidden trunks, were traversed with only a minor damage to his person and rather more serious damage to his shoes and trousers.
    â€˜They’re getting away! After them!’ The laird’s cry spurred him on. The boy was not far ahead now. He could see him running out of the woods into the patch of sunlight beside the canal.
    â€˜After them!’
    It wasn’t until Pusey reached the edge of the trees and the level ground along the canal that he realised how far he was from racing fit. Through the last of the trees he had been almost level with the boy, now, in the open, the boy seemed to spurt ahead.
    As Pusey faltered, the challenge from the pursuers became more urgent. Looking frantically over his shoulder he saw the laird, still with his shotgun, gaining steadily, and behind him the factor, with the constable far in the rear. He spurted desperately for a few paces, and then with heart thumping madly had to fall into a gasping, shambling trot.
    He wasted another precious second by looking back. The laird was close behind now. He could see his ferocious expression and the beaded sweat on his brow. Far behind, the factor had dropped out of the hunt and was being comforted by the constable.
    Pusey knew that he couldn’t last much longer. Above his own laboured breath and the thumping of