Now Mr. Fogo had an extreme horror of bulls, especially red bulls, and this one was not merely red, but looked savage, to boot.  Mr. Fogo peered again round the corner of his umbrella.  The brute luckily had not spied him, but neither did it seem in any hurry to move.  For twenty minutes Mr. Fogo waited behind his shelter, and still the bull went on cropping.

It was already late, and the brute stood full in the homeward path to Kit’s House.  It was only possible to make a circuit around the ridge, as the cliff’s edge cut off a detour on the other side.  Weary of waiting, Mr. Fogo cautiously rose, pushed his easel under the bushes, and began to creep up towards the ridge, holding his umbrella in front of him as a screen.  This was rather after the fashion of the ostrich, which, to avoid being seen, buries its head in the sand; nor was it likely that the beast, if irritated at sight of a man, would acquiesce in the phenomenon of an umbrella at large, and strolling on its own responsibility.  But as yet the bull’s back was towards it.

Stealthily Mr. Fogo crept round.  He had placed about seventy yards between him and the animal, and had almost gained the summit when a dismal accident befell.

“Cl’k—­Whir-r-r-r-roo-oo-oo!”

It was the alarum in his tail-pocket.  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.

“Hi!” said the tramp, “where be you a-comin’ to?”

Mr. Fogo picked himself up and felt for his spectacles; they had tumbled off in his flight, and without them his face presented a curiously naked appearance.  The alarum in his pocket had stopped suddenly with the jerk of his descent.