From the very little that his eyes could make out, however, it was his belief that the running men were cadets.
Then one must have stumbled and fallen, for a figure lay between two bushes as Prescott dashed up.
"Don't you attempt to rise until you get the word, or you'll feel the jab of my bayonet," warned Dick.
He couldn't follow the others much further, anyway, as he had no authority to leave his post.

The man on number four must have heard, and would be alert.
"Where are you, number three sentry!" came Cadet Corporal Brodie's hail.
"Here, sir!" Dick answered.

He still stood watching the figure that lay in the shadow of the bushes.

The fallen one had not attempted to move.

Dick Prescott was close enough to make a thrust with his bayonet-tipped rifle if the fallen one made any effort to leap up.
That was as close as Dick intended to get until help was at hand, for an old trick with cadets running the guard on a dark night on this lonely stretch was to wait until the sentry got close enough, then to reach out and grab him by the ankles, throwing him.
Always, when such a trick was played successfully, the offender would be up, off and safe by the time the thrown sentry was on his own feet again.
So Prescott, without in the least intending to let his prisoner get away, did not venture close enough to risk being pitched over on his back himself.
"Poor old skylarker, too! I'm sorry for him," muttered Dick, under his breath.