Instinctively Joe worked harder at the pedals and gained the corner; was around it before the futility of further pursuit came to him. He looked back for sight of a policeman but saw only the empty street. Before him stretched a long, gradually curving road, picked out at long intervals by lights. Far ahead now was that tiny red speck that he had been following. Porterville was two miles away, yet at Porterville there might be an officer at the ferry house. At least, thought Joe, he could give the alarm there. He was pretty tired, more tired, indeed, than he realized, but he knew that he was good for two miles more. He wished devoutly that he was mounted on Sam’s light, high-geared Arrow instead of the cumbersome heavy steed beneath him! All these reflections had not relaxed his efforts, and now he was well out on the Porterville road, with the sluggish river flowing at a stone-throw on his left. The automobile was far away, but he could still see the tail light, and he was presently encouraged to find that it was not gaining on him. Perhaps even on this unfrequented road the thieves were not minded to attract notice by too much speed. There was, too, as Joe had heard, a motor policeman detailed for that stretch, and he guessed the thieves were afraid of being halted. The recollection of the motor policeman brought a throb of joy to Joe. If he could find him the race would soon be over!

But he didn’t find him. It seemed to Joe that to-night, when they were needed the worst way, all the policemen in the world had utterly vanished! In the end he toiled into the tiny hamlet of Porterville, to use his own expression, “just about all in.” The car had disappeared from sight half a mile back, but he was pretty sure that he knew where it was. The business center of Porterville consisted of about as many stores as there were corners at the intersection of two streets. Of these, one showed lights, and in front of it a handful of loiterers were standing underneath the inscription “General Store—U. S. Post Office.” Joe swung up to the curb, panting hard.

“Say, where’s there a cop?” he demanded breathlessly.

No one replied for an instant. Then a tall youth turned and hailed a man standing in the doorway. “Hey, Gene, seen Bill Cooper lately?”

“Bill? Yeah, he was around about ten minutes ago. Guess he’s down to the wharf.”

“What you want him for?” inquired a third citizen of the busy metropolis. But Joe was already under way once more.

Some two hundred yards off, was the ferry house, and even as he stepped on his pedals there came a hoarse warning blast. He sped like mad down the descending street. As he came to the slip there was a jangling of bells, the gates began to close and water was churned from the paddles of the boat. Bill Cooper was forgotten in that instant. Joe saw his quarry escaping and the instinct of the chase spurred him on unthinkingly. There was room between the closing gates to pass, although he scraped his handle grips and then he dismounted at a run, tossed the old wheel across a slowly widening expanse of water and jumped.

He landed atop the wheel, picked himself up and faced an irate deck hand. “What you trying to do? Kill yourself?” demanded the man. “Don’t you know you can’t get aboard after the gates are closed?”

“They weren’t closed,” answered Joe, “—quite!”

“You come along o’ me and see the captain,” replied the other. “You ain’t paid your fare, for one thing.”

Joe hadn’t thought of that, and now, feeling anxiously in a pocket, he wondered whether he was able to. But he was, for the fare was but seventeen cents for him and the bicycle, and he paid it while the burly captain growled him a lecture on boarding the ferry after the bell had rung. That over, he went back to the stern of the little boat, recovered his wheel and looked about him. The River Queen had a narrow cabin on each side and space between for some six vehicles. On this trip that space was occupied by but three, a farmer’s wagon and two automobiles. It took but an instant to determine, even in the dark of the unlighted tunnel, that the foremost automobile was apparently piled with furniture. Joe sauntered nearer. Although the tail light appeared to have been affixed in a position from which its rays could not possibly illumine the number plate, the latter was decipherable with the aid of the reflections from the car behind. Joe read and made a mental memorandum: 21,678. The tonneau of the car, a rather large one of good make but an old vintage, appeared to hold only household furniture. There was, first, a strata of mattresses, then a bundle of bedding, a chest of drawers, the pathetic table, a clothes basket filled with odds and ends and other objects not to be determined. Ropes passed and repassed over the load. In the seat ahead the two men sat huddled and silent. Joe went back and pondered deeply.

Perhaps, he thought, he should have found Bill Cooper, as he had at first meant to do, but suppose Mr. Cooper hadn’t been at the wharf? In that case Joe would have had to hunt for him and convince him of the truth of his strange story, by which time the thieves would have reached the other side, chosen their route—Joe didn’t know how many roads might lead away from there—and secured a good start. As it was now, he at least had the thieves and their booty still under his eyes, and he had thought of a plan whereby he could continue to keep them there until the heavy hand of the Law should descend upon them. On the whole, he concluded, he hadn’t made a mistake. And, having reached this encouraging conclusion, he sought the deck hand, now recovered from his choler, and held conversation, with the result that the bicycle was presently stored in a locker to await Joe’s return. Then the River Queen bumped into her slip, gangplanks were hauled aboard, the automobiles came to life again, chains rattled and the dozen or so passengers hurried ashore.

Save for the ferry house and a small store, closed and dark, this terminus of the ferry line had little to offer. Straight ahead, a road climbed upward to the summit of the river bluffs. To right and left a second road followed the stream up and down. The passengers climbed into waiting vehicles or walked away into the gloom. Joe, one of the first to land, stepped into the shadow of the ferry house and waited.

The first automobile creaked over the gangplank and up the incline. As it passed, Joe ducked from the shadow of the little building to the shadow of the car. At its rear was a stout tire carrier occupied by two spare tires. Joe clasped the upper rim of a tire and swung himself up, his knees colliding painfully with something decidedly hard and unyielding. Unthinkingly he uttered an ejaculation of pain, but fortunately the roar of the car as it breasted the hill ahead drowned it. Joe squirmed himself into a position which, if not very comfortable, was secure. There was no danger of detection and he was certain that he could hold on back there until Fortune, which had so far sadly flouted him, relented. The car rushed at the hill and took the first of it nobly. Then, however, its speed lessened and lessened and the driver shifted to second, and finally to low, and the summit was gained at no more than a snail’s pace. Once on level ground, however, it fairly flew, and although he was to some extent protected from the rush of the wind, Joe became sensible of the fact that the air up here on the hills was far colder than below in the valley. He began to realize his weariness, too. The few minutes on the boat had restored his breath, but they hadn’t taken the ache from his muscles. The glamour of excitement was waning now and he gave thought to his position. He was a good six miles from home and he had exactly ten cents to his name. He couldn’t return by the ferry, but would have to keep down the river to the first bridge; and he had a sickening notion that the first bridge was a lot nearer ten miles away than five! Well, there was no help for it. Having gone so far, he would see the matter through—even if he had to keep right on to Chicago! He would show Warren Scott and his Vigilantes that when it came to results there were others!

These musings were suddenly interrupted. The car was slowing down! At the cost of another ache Joe craned his head around the side of the tonneau. A short distance ahead was a broad illumination of white light and a blazon of red amidst it. They were approaching a roadside filling station and were going to stop! This, reflected Joe, was no place for him, for the gasoline tank was under his feet. As the car came to a pause he jumped down and scuttled across the road and into the black shadows of the trees.

From a small building beyond the pump with its brilliant red sign atop, came a man who after an exchange of words with the men in the car, set about refilling the tank. Joe watched and waited and thought hard. If he was to regain his place he must be quick about it and yet not be seen. That wouldn’t be so easy. If the filling station man saw him—he broke off abruptly. His gaze, wandering beyond the pump, had caught sight through one lighted window of a telephone on the wall of the little building. Why go any further? Here was his chance. He would tell his story and get the man to telephone to the first town beyond! A moment later the red tail light was growing smaller down the road and Joe was confronting the man from the doorway, stammering badly in his eagerness. The man stared back at him, startled.

“What?” he asked. “You want gas?”

Joe shook his head and tried again.

“Telephone,” he ejaculated. “Police!”

The man brought the chair down on all four legs with a bump and waved a hand. “Help yourself,” he directed. “What’s up? Accident?”

Joe shook his head again. “You do it,” he begged. “I—I haven’t got enough breath!”

“All right,” agreed the other good-naturedly. “What do you want?”

“Telephone the nearest town,” panted the boy, “and tell the police to stop that car, the one that just went by here. The number’s 21,678. Tell them it’s full of bicycles stolen in Central City, and—”

The man paused with the receiver off the hook, shook his head and laughed. “You’re crazy, kid,” he jeered. “That car had furniture in it. I know the fellows. They’ve stopped here two—three times lately. Who’s been stringing you?”

“Honest, it’s so!” protested Joe. “I’ve followed them all the way from their house. They’re bicycle thieves. The furniture’s just to fool folks. The bicycles are underneath. I know!”

The man looked less assured. “Well, that’s funny,” he said. “Hold on, what was the number?”

“21,678,” answered Joe.

“Wrong, son. That car’s number is 5,906. I’ve seen it two—three times and I remember. I’ve got a habit of noticing number plates.”

“They changed it this evening,” said Joe. “Won’t you please telephone?”

“Changed it? Well, say, I didn’t look at the number just now. All right, but, look here, kid, if this is some silly hoax I’ll get in a dickens of a mess with the Winsted police! Sure you ain’t stringing me? Sure you know what you’re talking about?”

Joe nodded dumbly. The man grunted, still doubtful, but put in the call. Then, while he waited, he eyed Joe dubiously. “Say,” he began, “if you’re double-crossing me—” He broke off then. “Hello! Police Headquarters? Huh? Well, say this is Perkins, Harry Perkins, out at the filling station on the Bluffs Road. Yeah! Say, there’s a kid here—yeah, young fellow—that’s right. He wants you to stop a car that just went through here, number 21,678, he says. He says the guys in it are a couple of thieves and that they’ve got the car filled with bicycles swiped over in Central. Huh? Yeah, that’s right, two, one, six, seven, eight. All right, I’ll hold it.”

“Did he—is he going to do it?” asked Joe eagerly.

“Guess so. He told me to hold the line. Probably—hello! What? Sure, here he is!” He motioned Joe and put the receiver in his hand. “Wants to talk to you,” he explained.

From far away came a faint, gruff voice. “Hello! Where’d you get that story from, my boy?”

Joe told his tale, standing first on one foot and then on the other, shouting loudly to convey his certainty, to convince the unseen and evidently somewhat incredulous official. In the end he must have succeeded, for the official broke into a repetition with:

“All right, son! You stick around there till you hear from us. We may need you. What’s your name? Kenton? All ri—”

Then silence. After a moment Joe hung up and lifted himself painfully to a table amongst an array of grease cans. The owner of the station eyed him with growing curiosity. “Say, that’s some story of yours, kid,” he said. “What were you in, a car or a motorcycle?”

“Bicycle,” answered Joe listlessly. Now that the end had come he was fast losing interest in the matter. About all he could think of was the way his legs ached!

“Bicycle!” exclaimed the man. “Gee-gosh, aren’t you tired?” Joe nodded. “Sure you are! Here, sit in the chair, kid. I’ll say you’re a plucky one! Gee-gosh! All that way on a bicycle! And didn’t lose ’em!”

The man talked on, but Joe, his eyes closed, perilously near asleep, didn’t really hear him: or, at the best, he heard just occasional detached words or phrases: “... Stopped here two—three times ... pleasant guys ... funny, though ... always loaded with furniture ... never noticed ... ought to hear ... police....”

Joe was concerned with something besides his legs now, and that was his stomach. He had suddenly remembered that he hadn’t had anything to eat, except a couple of sandwiches and a banana, since morning. Perhaps he actually did sleep for a few moments, for he certainly didn’t hear the telephone bell ring, and here was the filling station man saying excitedly: “Got ’em, kid! They’re pinched and you were dead right! The chief says the car’s plum full of bicycles! Hey, wake up and listen! They’ll be along pretty soon and take you home. He says there’s a reward out and he guesses you’ll get it!”

“I wish,” muttered Joe sleepily, “it was a dish of soup and a hunk of toast and I had it now!”

“Hey, Joe! Joe Kenton!”

Joe turned his bicycle across the street and drew up in front of Sam Sawyer. “Hello,” he said. “What’s it?”

“Want to see you a minute. How’s it feel to be a hero and have your picture in the papers and everything?”

Joe grinned embarrassedly. Then he glanced at the bundles in the carrier and frowned. “I’ve got to hurry,” he said. “I—”

“Well, wait a minute, can’t you? Have you got that reward yet?”

“No, but they said they would send a check to-day. I dare say it’s over at the house now.”

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Sam, a bit enviously.

Joe smiled. “Put it in the bank for the present,” he answered. “It’s going to come in mighty handy later. Help a lot with school expenses, you know.”

“Yes,” agreed Sam. “Say, have you seen Warren to-day?”

“Warren? No.” Joe glanced impatiently at the city hall clock and from thence to the bundles.

“Then you haven’t heard?” exclaimed Sam.

“Guess not. What’s it?”

“Why, about the Vigilantes! About being a member!”

“Who?”

“You! Warren called a special meeting last evening and you were elected to membership, Joe! Unanimously!”

Joe looked back unemotionally. “That so?” he asked. “Mean that I’m a Vigilante now?”

“Sure!”

“In good standing? All my dues paid in full?”

“Of course, only there aren’t any—”

“Well, then,” interrupted Joe, spurning the curb with his left foot and settling in the saddle, “you tell ’em I’ve resigned.”

“Resigned!” gasped Sam.

Joe nodded as he rolled away. “Yes, you tell ’em I’ve got me a society of my own, Sam. It’s called the—the Go Get ’Em Society. So long!”