So he wrenched
the pony's mouth round, and presently they were racing up the face of
the hill, which apparently made no difference whatever to Bobs. Cecil
had not the slightest idea that his heels were spurring the pony at
every stride. He wondered angrily in his fear why he seemed to become
momentarily more maddened, and sawed at the bleeding mouth in vain.
They were at the top of the hill now. The crest was sharp and
immediately over it a sharp drop went down to a gully at the bottom. It
was steep, rough-going, boulder-strewn and undermined with wombat
holes. Perhaps in his calmer moments Bobs might have hesitated, but
just now he knew nothing but a frantic desire to escape from that cruel
agony in his sides. He flung down the side of the hill blindly, making
great bounds over the sparse bracken fern that hid the ground. Cecil
was nearly on his shoulder now--a moment more would set him free.
Then he put his foot on a loose boulder that gave with him and went
down the slope in a flurry of shifting stones. He made a gallant effort
to recover himself, stumbling to his knees as Cecil left the saddle and
landed in the ferns--but just as he struck out for firmer footing his
forefoot sank into a wombat hole, and he turned a complete somersault,
rolling over and over.
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