"He's beat! The Killer's beat!" roared a strident voice.
"M'Adam wins! Five to four M'Adam! I lay agin Owd Bob!" rang out the clear reply.
Red Wull was now racing parallel to the fugitives and above them. All four were travelling at a terrific rate; while the two flags were barely twenty yards in front, below the line of flight and almost parallel to it. To effect the turn a change of direction must be macic almost through a right angle,
"He's beat! he's beat! M'Adam's beat! Can't make it nohow!" was the roar.
From over the stream a yell-- "Turn 'em, Wullie!"
At the word the great dog swerved down on the flying three. They turned, still at the gallop, like a troop of cavalry, and dropped, clean and neat, between the flags; and down to the stream they rattled, passing M'Adam on the way as though he was standing.
"Weel done, Wullie!" came the scream from the far bank; and from the crowd went up an involuntary burst of applause.
It was a turn, indeed, of which the smartest team in the galloping horse-gunners might well have been proud. A shade later, and they must have overshot the mark; a shade sooner, and a miss.
