We met about ten yards this side of the nearest trees.

He rushed in on me with another “whoop,” and I saw then that he was a big, powerful, red-faced fellow of a rather coarse sporting type—­the kind of brute I’ve always had a peculiar dislike for.

“Down you go!” he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he swung back his stick and lashed out savagely at my head.

I didn’t go down.  Instead of that I stepped swiftly in, and striking up his arm with my left hand, I let him have my right bang on the point of the chin.  Worlds of concentrated bitterness were behind it, and he went over backwards as if he had been struck by a coal-hammer.

It did me a lot of good, that punch.  It seemed to restore my self-respect in a way that nothing else could have done.  You must have been a convict yourself, shouted at and ordered about like a dog for three weary years, to appreciate the full pleasure of being able once more to punch a man in the jaw.

At the moment, however, I had no time to analyze my feelings.  Almost before the red-faced gentleman’s shoulders had struck the ground I had reached the railing which bounded the wood, and putting one hand on the top bar had vaulted over into its inviting gloom.

Then, just for an instant, I stopped, and, like Lot’s wife, cast one hasty glance behind me.  Except for the motionless form of my late adversary, who appeared to be studying the sky, the stretch of moor that I had just crossed was still comfortingly empty.  So far no pursuing warder had even emerged from the plantation.  With a sigh of relief I turned round again and plunged forward into the thickest part of the tangled brake ahead.

It would have been difficult to find a better temporary hiding-place than the one I had reached.  Thick with trees and undergrowth, which sprouted up from between enormous fissures and piles of granite rock, it stretched away for the best part of a mile and a half parallel with the main road.  I knew that even in daylight the warders would find it no easy matter to track me down:  at this time in the afternoon, with dusk coming rapidly on, the task would be an almost impossible one.

Besides, it was starting to rain.  All the afternoon a thick cloud had been hanging over North Hessary, and now, as scratched and panting I forced my way on into the ever-increasing gloom, a fine drizzle began to descend through the trees.  I knew what that meant.  In half an hour everything would probably be blotted out in a wet grey mist, and, except for posting guards all round the wood, my pursuers would be compelled to abandon the search until next morning.  It was the first time that I had ever felt an affection for the Dartmoor climate.

Guessing rather than judging my way, I stumbled steadily forward until I reached what I imagined must be about the centre of the wood.  By this time I was wet through to the skin.  The thin parti-coloured “slop” that I was wearing was quite useless for keeping out the rain, a remark that applied with almost equal force to my prison-made breeches and gaiters.  Apart from the discomfort, however, I was not much disturbed.  I have never been an easy victim to chills, and three years in Princetown had done nothing to soften a naturally tough constitution.