He could hear their voices, their rough jests and
brief laughter, as they crept past.
It was an odd sensation, this, of lying there like a hunted hare,
knowing that it was him they were after.
He pressed still closer to the rock, and did not dare to raise his head
for a look. The voices and the sound of the oars died away, came again,
died again, as the boats slowly circled the rock, every keen eye on
board, he knew, searching every nook and cranny for sign of him.
Then a shot rang out, over there towards the south-west, and another,
and another. Tired of inaction, they were peppering his bee-hive to stir
him up in case he was fast asleep inside.
The other boats rowed swiftly round to the firing, and he could imagine
them clustered there in a bunch, watching hopefully for him to come out;
and his blood boiled and chilled again at thought of what might have
been if he had been caught napping.
And then, seizing his chance, he crawled to the opposite side of his
hollow, peeped over, and saw the way clear. If only they would go on
peppering the bee-hive for another minute or two, he would have time to
slip down the Sark side of his rock and get to the great wall, and so
down into his new hiding-place.
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