HOMEWARD BOUND, BY MOONLIGHT
"Jump 'em!" shouted Frank as he threw himself upon the first fellow,
floundering in the road.
"I'm on!" echoed Jerry, suiting the action to the words by propelling
himself straight at the second motorcycle thief.
This fellow happened to have come through his fall without getting hurt.
The consequence was, he felt disposed to put up a much better fight than
his confused companion, upon whose prostrate form Frank had straddled.
He rolled over once or twice with remarkable agility, causing Jerry to
miss his guess when he thought to drop on him. Then, scrambling to his
knees, the man, who turned out to be a rough-looking chap, indeed,
pulled something out of his pocket, which he aimed at the two boys about
to pounce upon him.
"Keep back, you!" he roared, his mouth being half filled with dirt after
he had plowed up the earth of the roadway with his face.
"He's got a pistol!" shrieked Will, who was fingering his camera
nervously from a point somewhat in the rear; and they immediately heard
the little suggestive click that announced the pressure of a finger on
the trigger.
Bluff was the quick-witted one on this occasion. He had his stick
upraised at the time, ready to strike. Instead, he sent it from him
suddenly with all his power, and as the cudgel was no light one, when it
struck the extended arm of the kneeling thief the shock was so great
that the shining object he had been gripping was hurled about five feet
away.
Jerry instantly took occasion to possess himself of the same. The man
was nursing his wounded arm and muttering to himself, his face screwed
up with pain.
"Talk to me about your quick work! What could beat that, fellows?" cried
Jerry as he stood over the grunting and disgusted rascal who had
attempted to hold them off.
"What had we better do with 'em?" asked Bluff, frowning at the several
scratches upon his machine caused by the accident.
"Any damage done?" asked Frank.
"Well, this man here has a sore arm, I guess; and the one you're sitting
on looks as if his face might be a map, from the scratches," replied
Jerry.
"Oh! I mean the machines," laughed Frank.
"Nothing serious here. How about yours, Will?" answered Bluff.
"Mine seems to be all right. They weren't going fast enough to cause a
real wreck. A little paint will fix it up," was the answer Will made.
"Do you know either of these fellows?" went on Frank.
The boys took a better look at the men.
"Why, the one with the scratched face is Hank Brady, I'm sure. He used
to live in Centerville. The other is a stranger to me," remarked Bluff.
"Well, I've seen him before. He was working in the office of the town
paper as a tramp compositor a week ago. I suppose he got uneasy, and
wanted to be on the move again, and seeing a fine chance for hooking a
couple of motorcycles, they yielded to temptation. If we took them back
they'd be locked up for this little job," observed Frank sternly.
"I hope you won't do anything of the kind, kids," said the fellow whose
arm had been stung by Bluff's stick. "We only wanted to have a lark with
you. Sure you don't think we'd be fools enough to run away with such
valuable things as them motorcycles, when the telephone would get us at
the next town? It was done for fun, but I reckon we paid the piper, all
right," and he scowled at Bluff as he spoke, nursing his arm as though
it were still painful.
Frank laughed. He was not of a vindictive nature. Besides, it did seem
as though the two fellows had been punished enough already.
"No matter, it was a mean trick, and you deserve all you got. Get up,
Hank. You took a lovely cropper that time. Where did you learn how to
run a motorcycle?" he asked, helping the prisoner to his feet.
"I was a chauffeur a little time back. Sure we never thought to run off
with the gas-wheels. Saw you comin' along, and Flimsy said it would be a
good joke to make you fellers think somebody was sick in the woods.
Then, when we seen you all go by, I said to him, 'Let's run a couple of
them machines down the road a bit, just to tease the boys.' Flimsy he
rode one once in his travels, and so we jumped on. The rest is history,
and I got the map that goes along with it, on me face."
"What say, boys? Shall we let it pass?" asked Frank, winking at his
chums.
Jerry, for reply, started to fire the revolver he held, until the
entire six shots had been discharged.
"Here! Take your gun, mister, and next time don't be so quick to pull it
on a stranger. Think what would happen to you if you'd fired and hit one
of us? Some time you may even be glad that Bluff, here, was so quick
with his stick."
He handed the empty weapon over to the tramp printer, who let his head
fall, as though really ashamed of his action.
The boys started back to where the other machines had been left, while
the two men slunk into the shelter of the woods, to patch up their hurts
as best they might.
"Say! that was a queer ending to a rescue, wasn't it?" asked Bluff.
"I only hope my picture comes out all right. It ought to show Frank
sitting on top of Hank, while Bluff and Jerry surround the other tramp,
who is on his knees, aiming his old gun. Then my machine is lying there.
Fellows, what need of words to explain what happened?" chuckled the
gratified Will.
Whenever he succeeded in securing a coveted picture the ardent
photographer was the happiest boy in the county. His pleasure caused him
to fairly bubble over with good nature.
"Tell me about that, will you!" said Jerry, pretending to scorn such an
exhibition of joy over so trivial a matter. "Why, you'd think the chap
had knocked over some big game, to hear him chatter."
"And so he had," declared Frank quickly, "according to his light. All of
us are not made alike, Jerry. One man's food is poison to another. You
and I are fond of fishing and shooting, but Will is more of an artist.
He delights in stalking the timid deer in the close season, and shooting
him with his camera. Lots of people believe his way of securing pleasure
beats ours all hollow."
"Anyhow, it doesn't thin out the game," asserted Will stoutly.
Jerry stopped short to turn a look of pity on his comrade.
"Think how hungry we'd all go out in camp if we depended on your blessed
old box for supper," he suggested witheringly.
"All very true," remarked Frank as they reached the other motorcycles,
and prepared to continue their interrupted journey to the camp of the
trapper; "which is proof of what I say, that many men, many minds.
There's room for all kinds in a party."
"Yes; and nobody likes to look over my prints more than Jerry," grumbled
Will, feeling quite offended.
"Don't pay any attention to him. He doesn't mean anything by it. You
know how he likes to joke every one. Now, we're off again, boys."
Once more they made their way along the rough road. The sight of those
two unfortunates sprawling upon the ground was a lesson, warning the
riders against trying for speed under such conditions, so they made
haste slowly.
Upon arriving at the cabin home of the trapper they surprised him very
much; and when Jesse Wilcox learned the object of their visit he was
more pleased than ever.
They spent some hours with him, and even assisted in getting the evening
meal. From their long experience now the boys had become quite
proficient in this line, and were able to show old Jesse quite a few
tricks that delighted him.
With the campfire blazing merrily, they ate supper alongside his rough
cabin home. Of course, they fairly deluged him with questions about the
habits of the big game of the West, which he answered to the best of his
ability.
"Wait till we get out with Martin Mabie, fellows. He's on the ground,
and can set us straight. Jesse has been trapping these little animals
around here so long now he's a back number," joked Jerry, at which the
trapper laughed, for he was very fond of these four lads, and nothing
they said annoyed him.
As they had planned, the run home was made by moonlight. This
necessitated that they walk with their machines until the good road was
gained, below the lumber camp.
"I wonder whether those two tramps hit the high places, and got out of
this neighborhood for keeps?" Bluff was saying, after they had mounted
and were bowling along merrily toward town.
"The chances are that way. That tramp printer must be a bad sort of
chap, it seems to me, and if Hank keeps along in his society I can see
his finish," answered Jerry over his shoulder.
They had not made more than a mile when once more Frank gave a quick
toot of his horn that brought the little procession up in a hurry.
"What ails us now?" demanded Bluff.
"Frank's bending over something in the road, as sure as you live!"
called Will.
"Tell me about that, will you! Seems as if our lively times haven't
stopped yet. It never rains but it pours, fellows. Hi! Frank, what's the
matter? Say! Would you believe it? There's a man lying in the road!"
Jerry made haste to push his heavy motorcycle forward so as to reach the
side of his kneeling chum.
"It's Hank Brady, boys, and he seems to be in a bad way. Something has
happened to him since we saw him last," said Frank, looking up.
"Goodness gracious! Is he dead?" gasped Will, his eyes dilating in
horror.
"I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out," replied Frank, bending
over so that he could press his ear upon the breast of the man in the
road.
"And that tramp printer, where's he at?" asked Jerry suggestively. "Tell
me that, will you?"