“Hey, Joe! Joe Kenton!”

Joe swung dextrously between a big red truck and a light delivery wagon and slowed down at the curb, where, transferring one foot from pedal to sidewalk, he balanced his bicycle beside the boy who had hailed him.

“Hello, Sam,” he responded. “What’s it?”

Sam Sawyer, a likable-looking boy whose manner, and attire, suggested a leisure not enjoyed by his friend, smiled back. “Just wanted to see you,” he answered. “Have some?” He proffered a bag of peanuts. Joe dipped into it, but he frowned slightly as he did so.

“I’ve got to hurry,” he said a trifle importantly.

“Where are you going?” Sam glanced at the wire carrier affixed to the front of the bicycle which was piled with bundles.

“Temple Street,” replied Joe. “Mrs. Madden’s. She wants these things for supper—I mean dinner.”

“I should think she’d order them earlier then,” said Sam. “Say, did you hear about Warren Scott?”

Joe shook his head. “No. What’s it?”

“‘What’s it!’” mimicked the other. “They got his wheel yesterday.”

“Stole it, you mean?” asked Joe interestedly. “Who?”

“I don’t know, you idiot. The folks who’ve been stealing all of them, I suppose. He left it in front of Guyers’, and when he came out it was gone.”

“What time was it?” asked Joe.

“I don’t know. Some time after school. Why?”

Joe frowned in a puzzled fashion for a moment.

“Isn’t Warren’s bicycle a Malden?” he asked then. “Purple, with white lines?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I saw a fellow riding along Bennett Street yesterday about a quarter to five on a wheel that looked a lot like Warren’s. I thought, of course, it was his, because his is the only brand-new one I’ve seen in town, but I guess maybe it wasn’t.”

“I’ll bet it was!” exclaimed Sam excitedly. “What sort of a looking fellow was he? Did you know him?”

Joe shook his head. “I never saw him before, I guess. He was about your build, only maybe a year older, and wore dark clothes and a slouch hat. Sort of countrified fellow, I’d say. I’d been out to Grant Avenue with a crown roast for the Meyers, and it was about a quarter to five when I came into Bennett Street. I was through at the store and was going home. Bennett Street’s asphalted all the way to Ramsey, and so I turned in there instead——”

“Did he look as though he was—was stealing it?” demanded Sam eagerly.

“N-no, I just thought maybe Warren had loaned it to him. I didn’t think it belonged to him, somehow. He—he didn’t quite look like a fellow who’d own an expensive bicycle.”

“Why didn’t you ask him where he got it?” asked Sam impatiently. “You might have known it was Warren’s!”

“Well, I did think it was, but I didn’t know it had been stolen, did I?” replied Joe slightly indignant.

“You might have thought of it,” said Sam, “seeing there’s been about twenty bicycles stolen in Central City in the last two weeks! I’ll bet I’d have asked him mighty quick! Where do you suppose he was going to with it? Bennett Street’s more than two miles from Guyers’ place.”

Joe shook his head. “He was riding along south when I passed him. Going sort of fast, but not like he was in much of a hurry.”

“Well, say, you’d better come along to Warren’s and tell him about it,” said Sam. “Maybe the police can find it if we hurry.”

But Joe shook his head as his alarmed glance swept from his bundles in the carrier back over his shoulder to the City Hall clock. “I can’t now, Sam,” he said firmly. “I’ve got to hurry like the dickens. I’ll go around there after I get through at the store.”

“Maybe I’d better tell him right now,” said Sam, “and you can see him later. He ought to know as soon as possible, I guess. What time do you get through at the store?”

“Five, generally. Sometimes there’s a delivery after that.”

“Well, say, Joe, I’ll beat it over to Warren’s and come back to the store for you at five.”

Joe nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “Maybe you’d better. I’m not sure just which house Warren lives in. We don’t exchange visits very often,” he added dryly. He pedaled out into the crowded traffic of Central City’s principal business thoroughfare, the brown-papered parcels joggling about in the carrier, wormed his way between the two lines of westward-bound trucks and autos, cut under the nodding head of a big gray dray horse and turned into Cotting Avenue. From there he could make better time, and, since he was late, he pedaled fast. His steed was not a very speedy one at best and it was only by straining his leg muscles to the utmost that he could attain a celerity that approached his desire. The Madden cook was a formidable woman with an eloquent flow of language, and Joe had no wish to start the flow!

Although it was well after four when he hurried along the Madden side yard and thrust open the kitchen door, grumbles instead of scolding awaited him. He kept a still tongue while he placed the parcels on top of the refrigerator and dodged quickly out again. Ten minutes later, by following the streets of poorer paving and scanty traffic, he was back at the “Central City Market, Donaldson and Burns, Proprietors,” had leaned his bicycle against the wall beside the rear entrance and reported back in the shipping room. On Saturdays he was on duty until nine o’clock at night. As to-day, however, was only Tuesday he could be measurably sure of getting away at five or a few minutes after. To make it more certain he kept a sharp eye on the orders for the final delivery, with the result that when the last box of spinach and crate of grapefruit had been brought in from the sidewalk and the big green curtains were down he was free to leave.

He found Sam Sawyer awaiting him outside. Sam had brought his own bicycle and as Joe wheeled his to the street Sam said: “We’re to go right to the police station, Joe. Warren’s going to meet us there. He’s certain sure that was his wheel you saw.”

“Yes, I guess it was,” Joe agreed. “I’ve been thinking about it. It was new and shiny, just like his. I guess we’d better foot it, Sam. We’ll get there faster this time of night.”

Sam, who was already astride, viewed the congested traffic of Main Street and agreed. Together, their wheel beside them, they made a slow and difficult passage along the sidewalk, audibly censured by home-hurrying pedestrians. Sam, however, managed to keep conversation going in spite of frequent interruptions. “I guess there won’t be many more wheels stolen after this,” he announced confidently.

“Why?” asked Joe.

“Haven’t you heard about the Vigilantes?”

Joe shook his head. “What’s it?” he inquired.

“It’s a society,” replied Sam. “Sort of a secret society. Warren got it up. Just fellows who own wheels belong. It’s to help the police stop bicycle thieves here in Central City, just like in some of the bigger cities. Over in Hammon there’s been more than two thousand dollars’ worth of bicycles stolen since the first of the year! And I guess there’ll be that many swiped here, too, if it isn’t stopped pretty quick. There’s been about twenty stolen already!”

“When was this society started?”

“Last night, at Warren’s. He got a lot of the fellows together by telephone and we put it right through in about twenty minutes. Chief Connell was mighty tickled when we told him about it.”

“I suppose Warren’s president?”

“Yes, that is, he’s chief. I’m second chief and ‘Tilly’ Cross is——”

“Of course he had to have a fancy name for it,” commented Joe.

“What’s the matter with the name?” asked Sam indignantly. “If you knew your history——”

“Oh, it’s all right, I suppose. Only Warren’s always starting societies with funny names. Like during the war when he got up the Junior Secret Service and he and Talbot Fraser got pinched for looking in someone’s window one night——”

“That’s all right! The fellow was a German, wasn’t he? And even if he wasn’t a spy, he acted mighty queer. Every one said so!”

“How much does it cost to get into it?”

“The Vigilantes? It doesn’t cost a cent. It—it’s a patriotic organization.”

“Well, if it doesn’t cost anything I guess I might go in.”

“We-ell—” Sam’s tones were rather flat. “Well, you see, we’ve had to make a rule that only fellows who owned their own wheels could join. If we didn’t there’d be a lot of—of riff-raff want to come in; fellows who’d want to join just for fun or curiosity.”

“I see,” nodded Joe. “Fellows like me, you mean.”

“No, I don’t and you know it,” answered Sam indignantly. “You’re all right, of course. But you don’t own a wheel, and so—you see——”

“I don’t see what difference it makes whether I own this wheel or whether Donaldson and Burns own it. It’s just the same as if it was mine. I use it all the time. Besides, for that matter, it mighty near is mine now. There isn’t much left of the original affair. I put on a new fork and new chain and new saddle and handlebars and had the thing mended half a dozen times because I thought that, seeing they let me use it away from the store, it was only fair I should keep it in shape. Gee, it was just an old second-hand wheel when Mr. Burns bought it. Anyway....”

“That’s right,” said Sam soothingly, “but you see how it is, old man. Rules are rules, eh?”

“Sure,” agreed Joe. Then he chuckled. “Funny, though, isn’t it, that the first fellow to do any vigilanting should be me?”

“We-ell,” replied Sam, “of course we don’t know yet that anything will come of it. That might not have been Warren’s wheel, you see, after all.”

“Thought you seemed pretty certain about it awhile back,” remarked Joe dryly. “Well, I guess I can worry along without being a Vigilante, Sam. At that I dare say I’ll nab as many bicycle thieves as any of the rest of you!”

“Of course,” agreed Sam heartily. He didn’t really think so, but he was glad that Joe wasn’t offended. He liked Joe, and if it hadn’t been for that rule he would have gladly seen him become a member of the new society.

They reached the central police station just then and wheeling their bicycles up the steps—for nowadays there was no certainty that even the precincts of the police station would be sacred to the thieves—they left them in the hall and turned into the room on the left. Warren Scott was awaiting them. He was a tall, very good-looking fellow of eighteen, a senior in high school and a person of prominence there. Secretly, Joe thought Warren rather a “pill,” but he might have been prejudiced. Their walks of life seldom met and their acquaintance was extremely casual. Perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to term Warren a snob, but his father held a responsible position with the largest industrial plant in Central City, was a man of means and lived accordingly, and naturally Warren found little to connect him with a boy who, however estimable his character might be, spent his vacation delivering roasts of beef and bags of potatoes. This evening, however, Warren’s manner was far more friendly. He seemed to meet the younger boy on a footing of social equality. Guided by a sergeant, they went into an inner room and into the august presence of Chief of Police Connell. The chief was corpulent, ruddy-faced, jovial, and he accorded the chief of the Vigilantes a most cordial welcome. To Joe it seemed that Chief Connell was rather more amused than impressed with the new society, but perhaps he just imagined it. Their business was soon over with. Joe gave his evidence clearly and, having recalled the incident carefully during the afternoon, was able to give a fairly good description of the presumed bicycle thief. The chief, however, was not very hopeful of recovering the stolen property.

“You see, boys,” he said, “whoever’s working the game is pretty foxy. No one ever sees ’em at it. Probably there’s two or three operating together. Likely they send them off to Chicago or somewhere like that and sell them. They don’t get back on the market here, that’s sure. It’s easy to change a bicycle over so’s the owner would never know it, too. A little enamel is all they need. We haven’t had much luck so far, boys, and that’s the truth. Only recovered one and that was left in an alley. Had a broken frame, and the thieves probably didn’t want it. But now that you boys are going to help us I guess we’ll do better.” And the chief smiled broadly.

Going out, Warren thanked Joe quite nicely for his help. “It’s too bad, though, you couldn’t remember the fellow’s face better,” he added.

“He had his hat pulled down, you see,” replied Joe. “But I guess I’d know him if I ever saw him again.”

As Warren and Sam lived northward and Joe west, the three parted outside the station.