Jove! he's captured a wheel with a vengeance. Hear it
hum."
The quartette strung down the hill full pelt, but when they got to the
bottom the cyclist was a good hundred yards ahead. His pursuers came to a
dead stop.
"May as well go home now," said Grim, in great disgust. "We can't dog him
now, and anyhow it isn't Pettigrew's pheasants that Jack's after: he's
gone past the woods. What a bone-shaker he's captured. Hear the spokes
rattlin'."
"Not so quick, Grimmy. He's wheeling into that little Westcote inn. We'll
run him down now."
The rider had indeed dismounted nearly a quarter mile ahead, and
instantly the Amorians were stringing down the road again. Before the
door of the little inn they found a bicycle propped up drunkenly against
the wall, and the Amorians, pumped though they were, had breath enough
left to explode over Bourne's machine. It was a "solid" of
pre-diamond-frame days, guiltless of enamel or plating, and handle-bars
of width generous enough for a Dutch herring-boat's bow.
"There's no false pride about Jack," said Grim, gloating over the weird
mount. "Whatever is he doing in here?"
"Liquid refreshment," said Rogers between a gulp and a gasp. "Oh, Jack,
was it for this and this that you gave us the go-by?"
"This place doesn't seem Jack's form somehow," said Wilson, looking
doubtfully up and down the little inn.
"Ring him out, Wilson," said Grim. "His little game's up now, and we can
rag him for an age over this.
Pages:
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109