A WILD CHASE.
“That’s odd,” remarked Jack, as the two men vanished.
“What’s odd?”
“Why, if ever I saw a man badly worried, it was Mr. Dancer. What do you
suppose is the matter?”
“No idea. He’s in debt, perhaps.”
“No, that man didn’t look like a bill collector.”
“I didn’t like his looks much, anyway. Wonder who he can be?”
“Well, there’s his name on a name plate on that motorcycle,—Adam Duke.”
“That’s the name that Mr. Dancer used when he came up. By the way, what
do you think of Mr. Dancer, Jack?”
“A fine type of man. He is rather dreamy and impracticable, as only too
many inventors are apt to be.”
“He has some wonderful features embodied in that submarine, though.”
“Indeed he has. But a submarine that won’t dive isn’t much good.”
“No more use than a motor that won’t mote,” coincided Tom with alacrity.
“Have you any ideas to help him out, Jack?” he continued.
There was a far-away look in Jack’s eyes before he replied. Then came
his answer:
“Yes, Tom, I have thought of something, but whether it would be
practicable or not I don’t know yet.”
“Well, if you’ve thought of anything, I’ll bet you’ll manage to work it
out some way,” quoth Tom with admiring conviction.
“I wish that I could be as sure of that as you, Tom,” was the
rejoinder; “but hark! what’s that?” he broke off suddenly. “It seems to
me that we can be of aid to Mr. Dancer right now, Tom.”
“Gracious, yes! Listen, there it goes again!”
The sound both boys referred to was a sharp cry for help coming from
beyond the palings.
“Help!” shouted a voice that they had no difficulty in recognizing as
Dancer’s, and then again came the cry for aid, sharp and thrilling in
its urgent need.
“Help! Help!”
“Come on, Tom!”
“I’m right with you, Jack!”
Together the two boys dashed through the gate which had been left open
when Mr. Dancer and the man they knew as Adam Duke entered it.
Once inside they paused for an instant. Nobody was in sight, but a
cry issuing from a small building told them that it was within that
structure that they were needed, and needed in a hurry. Simultaneously
both lads ran toward the building, a small shed, apparently used as an
office.
As they neared it, a figure darted from the door. It was Adam Duke.
“What’s the trouble?” demanded Jack.
“Nothing,” snarled Duke with an effort at self-control; but his face
was flushed and his eyes wild; and then he shouted:
“Take that, you young cub!”
A massive fist shot out, and Jack, taken utterly unawares, was knocked
from his feet into the dust.
Before he could recover himself, Duke was darting for the gate, but
with Tom clinging to him like a bulldog to a cat.
“Good for you, Tom!” shouted Jack, gathering himself together and
regaining his feet.
He was about to follow Tom and the man Duke when a moan from within the
shed from which Duke had darted arrested him.
“Mr. Dancer or somebody is in pain or injured,” he exclaimed. “My first
duty is to him.”
Flinging a quick word of encouragement to Tom, the boy ran into the
shed.
“Mr. Dancer! Mr. Dancer! Are you there?” he cried as he entered the
place which was in semi-darkness.
“Who is it? Oh, who is it?” came in a moaning, broken voice from some
corner of the dark shed.
“It’s Jack Chadwick! I’ve come to help you,” rejoined Jack as his eyes,
growing more accustomed to the gloom, made out a figure huddled in a
half shapeless mass in one corner of the place.
“I fear you are too late, my lad. The scoundrel Duke has—has——”
“Yes?” urged Jack, bending over the recumbent man.
But Mr. Dancer’s eyes closed and he sank back unconscious. It was not
till then that Jack felt that his hands were wet, and realized that the
inventor was bleeding from a wound on the head, apparently inflicted
with some blunt instrument.
“The man Duke has wounded, perhaps fatally injured him!” was his
thought as he hastily sought for some means of staunching the blood,
which was flowing copiously.
A pitcher of water stood on the desk, and Jack hastily soaked his
handkerchief in it. Then, returning to Mr. Dancer’s side, he bathed the
ugly wound.
Almost immediately he was rewarded by Mr. Dancer opening his eyes and
gazing at him in a somewhat dazed way.
“Can you tell me what has happened?” asked Jack.
“Yes; it was Duke struck me. He has a sort of hold on me, a monetary
one. I can’t explain now, but he has stolen papers from that desk.”
“Important ones?”
“Yes; in a way they are important.”
“Hold on, I may be able to catch him yet!” cried Jack, darting from the
shed.
[Illustration: “LOOK!” CRIED TOM; “HE’S THROWING SOMETHING AWAY.”]
His quick ear had caught the sound of an approaching auto, which he
recognized as his own from the noise of the exhaust.
Sure enough, as he reached the gate in the palings, his red racing
runabout, designed by himself along new lines, was pulling up to the
sidewalk.
“Fo’ de lan’s sake!” Jupe shouted as he pulled up; “what’s all dis hyah
bobbin’ an’ flummery?”
As the colored man shouted the words, making up expressions in his own
peculiar way when his vocabulary failed him, Jack saw that Tom was
lying at the roadside while Duke was making a jump for his motorcycle.
He had just time to take in all this when Tom scrambled to his feet. At
the same instant Duke sprang to the seat of his motorcycle and was off
like a flash.
“After him!” shouted Tom, running toward Jack and the red motor car.
“Don’t let him escape!”
“Then you are not hurt, Tom?”
“No; but he managed to fling me off and I hit the road with a pretty
hard bump.”
“Good—I mean it’s good you weren’t hurt. Start her up, Jupe; don’t let
that fellow ahead escape.”
Both boys leaped into the car, and as they chugged off Tom asked Jack
if he had heard anything of the cause of the attack on Mr. Dancer.
“He said something about ‘papers’ when he regained consciousness,”
rejoined Jack, “but I didn’t question him further.”
“Gollygumption, ef you boys ain’t allers in some sort of conniption
fits,” sputtered Jupe; “what’s de conflaggerationous matter now?”
“Just this, Jupe, that by chance we met Mr. Dancer, an inventor. A
short time after, he was brutally attacked by that man ahead of us on
the motorcycle. The man also stole some papers. We must catch him if
possible.”
“We cotch him or bust up dis yar Red Raben!” declared Jupe, using the
odd name he had devised for the small but speedy red runabout.
The car roared and swayed as Jupe “opened it up.” It sprang forward
with a jump like that of a live thing.
The man on the motorcycle glanced back over his shoulder. He saw that
the fast little automobile was overhauling him, and instantly speeded
up his machine.
It was a grim race and promised to be a long one, for the motorcycle
appeared to be a speedy one, and Duke apparently intended to spare no
efforts to escape.