The bull looked up, gazed
wildly at the umbrella, snorted, lashed out with his tail, and
started in pursuit. Quick as thought, Mr. Fogo dropped his screen,
and, with a startled glance around, dashed at full speed for the
ridge, the infernal machine still dinning behind him.
Luckily, the bull's onset was directed at the umbrella. There was a
thundering of hoofs, a dull roar, and the poor man, as he gained the
summit and cast a frantic look behind, saw a vision of jagged silk
and flying ribs. With a groan he tore forwards.
There was a hedge about fifty yards away, and for this he made with
panting sides and tottering knees. If he could only stop that
alarum! But the relentless noise continued, and now he could hear
the bull in fresh pursuit. However, the umbrella had diverted the
attack. After a few seconds of agony Mr. Fogo gained the hedge, tore
up it, turned, saw the brute appear above the ridge with a wreck of
silk and steel upon his horns, and with a sob of thankfulness dropped
over into the next field.
But alas! in doing so Mr. Fogo performed the common feat of leaping
out of the frying-pan into the fire. For it happened that on the
other side a tramp was engaged in his legitimate occupation of
sleeping under a hedge, and on his extended body our hero rudely
descended.
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