He heard hurried movements and low mutterings, probably in their frenzy
to open the safe. Then an exclamation as if it finally yielded.
“Ah,” Baptiste exclaimed. “That’s why I look at Meester Mitchell open
the safe. Now I open it, see?”
“The leetle tin box,” the other Mexican exclaimed; “it’s locked!”
Then he heard the heavy safe door swing shut and the sound of footsteps
toward the hall.
“We weel open it at my house then!”
They went out of the room and, as they padded down the stairs, Westy
jumped up quietly and followed. As he got to the head of the stairs the
other Mexican went on out, while Baptiste was extinguishing the lights,
leaving only a dim night light burning in the hall.
As Westy got halfway down the stairs Baptiste went out also, so he
hurried out after him quietly and hid behind some shrubbery in the
driveway. The other Mexican was leaning over a rickety-looking Ford
touring car and he put the precious tin box in the back seat, while
Baptiste climbed in behind the wheel.
Westy’s mind was working fast. The Mexican got in the front seat also
and as Baptiste turned on his tail light the scout’s heart leaped with
joy as he saw young Mitchell’s motorcycle parked back in the driveway.
With the usual trembling of tin the Ford drove out into the roadway
headed for the outskirts of the city. Before it had gone a block and a
half, however, Westy was out of the driveway on the motorcycle and like
a shot went after them.
Whether it was a guilty conscience or not, something prompted Baptiste
to step on his gas and go the limit.
“Well, I’ll go the limit, too,” Westy said, “whether it’s my motorcycle
or not.”
As he passed the corner on one wheel he saw a policeman standing talking
to some people in another Ford and Westy shouted for them to follow.
Looking back, he saw they had started and so he went on. He knew
Baptiste couldn’t keep it up with the exception that he might slip into
some dark road and lose him.
So he crawled up easy just as young Mitchell had showed him and got
alongside of the Ford. He raised himself then, just in a half standing
position and reached over in the back seat of the touring car.
The handle of the little tin box was upright and it was the will of
Providence that this was so or Westy could never have grasped it with
one hand.
Indeed, it all happened so quickly that neither Baptiste nor his
companion realized what had happened.
With one hand grasping the tin box close to his breast and the other on
the steering gear, Westy proved to Baptiste that he could do almost as
good as young Mitchell when it came to stunts.
He slowed down again--and then rushed forward with a lurch and a roar,
cutting in front of the ramshackle Ford.
But Westy forgot one thing that young Mitchell had taught him. He forgot
that the feat required both hands on the steering gear, for as he cut in
front of it he held more tightly to the tin box than he did to the
motorcycle, and as it lurched it hit a deep rut in the road and threw
him bodily--into the field beyond.
The policeman picked him up a few seconds later--unconscious--but
against his breast the tin box was tightly clasped.