Mr. Jones, of the Manor farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes. The ring of light from his intern swayed side to side. He lurched across the yard. Kicked off his boots. Drew himself a last glass of beer. Then made his way to the bed, where Mrs Jones was already snoring.
‘Bang!’. The door slammed. Nigel sprinted. Wind through his hair. Heart thumping. The police were on his tail. But Nigel was nimble. Quick. Two middle aged, pot bellied Cops were not going to catch him. Stepping poles. Hopping fences. Ducking ledges. Finally. Nigel was home free.
The door slammed behind Nigel as he tucked the money into his worn sash. His heart was beating like a flickering light turning on and off, the wind weaved through his hair as he started to run. The police were right on his tail, but Nigel was to nimble for them to catch him. The cops, were pot bellied middle aged men, there was no way they could catch him. Nigel faced many obstacles, but none significant enough to slow him down or stop him, he knew that he was home free.
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