PATSY’S CAPTURE.
“We’ll be on them in a minute,” said Nick. “Got an extra pair of
handcuffs, Patsy?”
“Sure!” and Patsy dove into his pocket and brought out a pair of
bracelets.
“I was pretty well stripped by Clancy and his gang before they threw me
in the river,” went on Nick.
“We’ll get your property back in short order, Nick,” said Chick.
“We’ll have a fight first. By George! they’re jumping from the
automobile and taking to the woods!”
“They’re going to make a run of it, the cowards!” exclaimed Patsy.
“You take the tall man, Patsy,” said Nick. “I’ll attend to the short,
thickset individual, and you, Chick, can take the other.”
“All right,” came from Chick and Patsy.
Presently the electric auto was alongside the Red Spider, and the
detectives leaped into the road and started for the woods.
At the edge of the timber a volley was fired at them, the bullets
whistling through the air uncomfortably close.
The fire of the robbers was returned, the detectives leaping forward.
In a few moments they caught sight of Clancy and his pals.
They were separating and making in different directions.
“Here’s where we divide,” said Nick. “Remember, we’ve got to have those
men before they get across the line.”
“They’re ours!” said Chick.
“Easy!” added Patsy.
Patsy’s man was Cricket, and the way Patsy sprinted after him was a
sight to see and remember.
Through the woods, pell-mell, raced the grafter and the detective,
leaping over logs, plunging through bushes, and halting now and again to
try a shot at each other.
None of the bullets took effect, and both Patsy and Cricket had soon
used up their ammunition.
“It will be a give-and-take with our mitts now,” thought Patsy, “and
it’s a mighty good thing that I’m the best runner. Hello! There’s a
farmhouse, and Mr. Grafter is making right for it.”
There was a clearing in the woods, and Cricket leaped a fence and made
for the farm buildings.
At first he headed toward the house, but a sight of the farmer and his
wife, and a contingent of children, with a hired man and a bulldog in
the background, caused him to change his mind.
Swerving to the right, he pushed for the barn.
“Hi, there!” cried Patsy. “He’s a thief! Head him off! Stop him!”
Instead of trying to head off the fleeing robber, however, the farmer
and his family retreated into the house at a double quick.
“Hurry, Hiram!” cried the woman, frantically. “They’re tramps, and we’ll
all be killed, I know we will!”
“Don’t you fret, Mirandy!” whooped the farmer. “I’ll take care of you.”
Then the door was slammed shut, effectually debarring the entrance of
the hired man.
“Le’me in!” bellowed the hired man, banging at the door with his
clinched fists. “Gosh all hemlocks, d’ye want me tew git killed?”
“You don’t amount to nothin’, Willyum,” called the farmer from behind
the door; “they won’t kill you. Set Tige on ’em!”
The hired man whirled and loped toward the barn.
Seeing Patsy making in that direction, William sidetracked into a corn
crib.
At any other time the ludicrous side of this situation would have
appealed to Patsy, but just now he had his hands too full to consider
it.
Cricket had run into the barn, and the detective sprang to the door
through which he had vanished.
Just as Patsy reached the barn the bulldog, Tige, became a factor in the
case.
The dog was not so easily scared as the farmer and the rest of the
household, and didn’t care particularly who he tackled, just so long as
he tackled somebody.
It happened that he came up with Patsy, as the latter was about to leap
into the barn, caught him by the tails of his coat and pulled him
backward.
The instant Patsy recoiled, a pitchfork cleaved the air in the exact
place his head had been an instant before.
The detective grabbed the fork, wrenched it out of Cricket’s hands, and
turned.
“Good dog!” cried Patsy. “But that’s enough of it,” and he brought the
handle of the fork around with terrific force.
Tige was a bulldog, but he was sensible, and realized when he had
enough.
He was knocked end over end, and when he picked himself up he raced for
the corn crib and tried to get inside with the hired man.
As Patsy once more leaped to get into the barn and try conclusions with
Cricket, a currycomb caught him in the shoulder.
“Never touched me!” shouted Patsy.
The next instant he and Cricket were having it rough and tumble on the
barn floor.
Patsy had strength, and science as well, and was not long in placing the
robber in chancery.
“That’ll do,” said Cricket; “you’re too many for me.”
“Where are your guns?” demanded Patsy.
“Dropped ’em,” panted Cricket. “They wasn’t any good, anyhow.”
“Got a knife?”
“No.”
“You’re another!”
Patsy thrust his hand into the breast of the robber’s coat and pulled
out a knife in a leather sheath.
After transferring the blade to his own pocket, he brought out the
darbies and attached them to his prisoner’s wrists.
“Now, get up,” he said, hanging on to the bracelets.
Cricket arose.
“Who are you?” he inquired.
“One of Nick Carter’s men,” grinned Patsy. “I should think you’d know
the brand by this time.”
“The best thing we’ve done this trip is to fix Carter,” gloated Cricket.
“You starred yourself at that, didn’t you?” returned the detective
dryly.
“You bet we did! Who was that duffer that ran your auto?”
“Chickering Carter, the Little Giant’s right-hand man.”
“And that cove in the water-soaked garments and minus the hat. You
pulled him out of the river, didn’t you?”
“Oh, no. He swam out and walked up the bank.”
“But his hands and feet were tied!”
“That’s no trick at all for Nick Carter.”
Cricket gave a jump.
“Nick Carter!” he gasped. “Was that man Nick Carter?”
“Sure. Who did you think he was?”
Cricket muttered an oath.
“There’s no use in a lot of pinheads like us going up against Nick
Carter,” he said. “When that sleuth enters a race it’s all over but
paying the bets.”
“You’re a pretty sensible kind of a grafter, after all,” said Patsy.
“If you’re done chinning, we’ll move--out of the barn and toward the
house.”
Cricket started, and Patsy walked at his side, still keeping a grip on
the comealongs.
The hired man and the dog were just crawling out of the corn crib, and
the farmer had mustered up courage to open the door of the house a
couple of inches, as the detective passed by with his prisoner.
A feeble plot darted through Cricket’s mind.
“I say,” he shouted, “this man is a highway robber, and he chased me
here. Go for him, will you? Help me get away from him!”
“Yeou be derned,” drawled the farmer. “A feller that ’u’d scare honest
folks like you did ought tew be robbed.”
“Got anything else you want to tell ’em?” queried Patsy.
Cricket gave a black scowl, and turned away.
“Then it’s us back to the auto,” went on the detective, and marched his
prisoner back through the woods to the road.
The two machines were standing side by side, as they had been left, and
there was no one around or in them.
“It looks as though I’d make a record for bringing in the first man,”
remarked Patsy. “Hello! What’s that?”
A thump of swiftly falling hoofs reached him, and a team and a lumber
wagon came slashing into view around a wooded bend.
The horses attached to the wagon were more than laying out.
The lines were dragging on the ground, there was no one on the bounding
seat, and the awkward vehicle leaped and buck-jumped like a thing of
life.
In the rear of the wagon box were two men, struggling with each other
for the mastery.
One of the men was Chick, and the other was Spark.