Grove and I hiked along to Lurin. It was pretty dark and we had to be
mighty careful for about half a mile, because the road ran right close
to the cliff, but when we once got over the top of that hill, the going
was easy.
We found a service station there and left our battery and got another
one. By the time we got back and Harry got everything connected up all
right, it was daylight.
He had to run that machine mighty careful for a ways, because we were
pretty close to the edge. We could look down and see that place below
good and plain in the daylight. We could see the trail, too, and just
how everything was, and it seemed funny that any of us could ever have
got lost down there. That shows the difference between day and night.
But anyway, I like night better on account of camp-fire. Only I don’t
like home work. I like the middle of the night best of all, but I like
the two ends of it, too. I like one end on account of breakfast, and the
other on account of supper. The reason I like the middle of the day is
on account of lunch. June is my favorite month, because that’s when my
birthday is, and one thing, I’m glad there’s a week between Christmas
and New Year’s, because on account of holidays. I wish there was a week
between Thanksgiving, but anyway, that hasn’t got anything to do with
that automobile trip. I just thought I’d tell you.
It was dandy to see the sun coming up that morning—that’s one thing I
like about the sun. But, oh, boy, weren’t we hungry! Grove and I sat on
the back seat with Ragtime Sandbanks (that’s the name we gave him)
sitting up between us. He was all nice and dry by that time. He looked
as if he didn’t have any sense. Harry says that’s the way it is with
movie stars. Cracky, that fellow’s all the time knocking the movies. I
guess he does it just to get Pee-wee started.
Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes, now comes a peachy adventure. Remember
how I told you that Grove and I had Ragtime Sandbanks sitting up between
us? Well, pretty soon, after we had got down to level country and were
making the speedometer earn its board, I happened to look around and,
_good night_, there was an automobile coming along lickety-split, about
a quarter of a mile behind us.
“They’re breaking the speed laws,” I said.
“Believe me, they’re smashing them all to pieces,” Grove put in.
Harry didn’t bother about them, just kept her rolling along at about
twenty per, when all of a sudden we heard the people in that car
shouting at us to stop.
“You don’t suppose it can be Brent Gaylong and his patrol, do you?” I
asked.
Harry said, “No, they’re waiting for us up in the woods by this time.”
“It’s a flivver,” Grove said.
“Some nerve; a flivver calling to a Cadillac to stop,” I said.
“Are we going to get arrested now?” Skinny sung out in that funny high
voice. Gee whiz, you could hardly blame him, after all the crazy things
that had happened.
Harry said, “Maybe, but I couldn’t promise you. Perhaps so, if you’re
good.”
We just kept running along about the same as before; Harry wouldn’t
bother to stop and he wouldn’t bother to go faster. And all the while
that other machine came zig-zagging and rattling along pell-mell, with
the men in it shouting for us to stop.
Pretty soon, good night, there was a shot!
“Huh,” Harry said, all the while stopping the machine; “looks like
business; I guess we’re pinched.”
“That shot went over our heads,” I said, “they didn’t mean to hit us.”
Harry said, “No, but they meant to scare us and make us stop; I wonder
what we’re up against now.”
All of a sudden a thought popped into my head. “Hurry up,” I said to
Grove; “let’s throw Ragtime Sandbanks out and they’ll think they killed
him. Throw him out so he’ll go down that bank beside the road—quick!”
In about a jiffy out went our old college chum, Ragtime Sandbanks
sprawling kerflop on the edge of the road and kerplunk down into the
ditch where there was water running.
“So long, old pal!” I shouted after him; “you died in a good cause.”
“Victim of an assassin,” Pee-wee said.
“He landed in the water,” Grove said.
“How can you _land_ in _water_?” Pee-wee wanted to know, all the while
craning his neck out of the car. “He sank,” he shouted; “I don’t see
him.”
“End of _The Cowboy’s Revenge_,” Harry said; “what do you suppose will
be the next act in this interesting comedy?”
“I think we’re pinched,” I said.
“What did we do?” Grove wanted to know.
“Who committed this murder? It wasn’t any of us,” I said.
Harry just sat there with his arms on the wheel, looking around and
waiting for that car to catch up with us, and laughing.
“I wish Brent was here,” he said; “I think we’re going to have some fun.
This is right in his line.”