"Look at the silly guy, will you! Thinks he can run away from a forty-mile-an-hour engine! I like his nerve, now!" exclaimed Nat.

"But Elmer's eating up the distance like fun!" cried Toby, dancing up and down in his great excitement. "Think of my old machine behaving so decent, would you! Why, she runs as smooth as grease—better than when she was new! There! He's closing in on him now like hot cakes. Watch what happens, Nat!"

They stood there in the road, with their eyes glued on the little comedy that was happening not a great distance away.

The tramp knew from the loudness of those rapid-fire explosions that the speeding motorcycle must be rapidly overhauling him. No need to turn his head any longer to size up the situation, which in his mind was becoming acute.

"He's going to skip out!" shrieked Nat, suddenly.

"Sure thing!" echoed Toby. "Look at him dragging his big trilbies along the road to slow up. Hope he don't run slap into a tree though, and bust things higher'n a kite!"

"There he goes! Hoopla!" shouted Nat.

They saw the tattered thief suddenly bring the motorcycle to a stop, or at least what looked like it from a distance. Then he fell over on the ground, and rolled into the bushes, as if only too anxious to get out of the reach of the owner, before he could lay hands on him.

Elmer shut off power and applied the brake, for he quickly came to a stop close by the spot where his machine lay.

"Chase after him, Elmer! Get him!" yelled Nat, as he and his comrade started to hasten along the road, Nat apparently forgetting that he might as well make use of his machine, if so be it would answer his demand.

But it looked as though wise Elmer saw no reason why he should get mixed up with a rough hobo, simply to satisfy his desire for revenge. He seemed to be bending over the motorcycle, as though investigating the extent of damages it might have sustained in being so hastily dropped on the hard road.

"Here, what's the reason we can't get along in style?" demanded Toby. "Hit up your old ice wagon, and I'll hitch on behind that far."

"Sure thing!" remarked Nat, as if the idea had never once occurred to him, he was so busy thinking of how he would like to lay hands on the thief.

After several attempts the machine decided to be good; and as it started, Toby managed to hang on in some fashion, until presently they arrived on the scene.

Elmer had raised his motorcycle and started the engine going, after dropping the rest at the rear, so that the back wheel could spin in the air.

"Seems to work all right!" declared Toby.

"Glad to say there's been no damage done, except a dent in the gas tank, and that can be easily pounded out later on," Elmer declared, as he heaved a sigh of relief.

"Are we going to let that hobo get off so easy; or do we chase after him?" asked Nat, glaring around at the neighboring woods, in the depths of which no doubt the object of his anger was snugly ensconced, watching to see what they would do.

"No use trying to get hold of him," remarked Elmer. "Forget it, and let's bump along the road. He just saw a chance to steal something that he really had no use for, and couldn't hold back. It's all right now, and no damage done. Get ready to start, fellows!"

In another minute they were speeding away, possibly much to the relief of the concealed tramp, who had begun to fear that he had stirred up a hornet's nest, and was likely to get stung pretty badly.

Ten minutes later, with all three machines humming merrily, they flitted past a roadside tavern.

"See that?" called Elmer over his shoulder to Toby, who was next in line.

"The road house, d'ye mean?" answered the other.

"Second signing station, fourteen miles, about, from Hickory Ridge," Elmer said.

"But you didn't make any move to stop," remarked Toby.

"No need," came the reply. "We wouldn't be apt to pick up any later news than what Hen Condit gave us. And we want to make all the time we can. Been enough delay already."

"But perhaps there won't be any more, from my machine anyhow, Elmer. She's going like a greased pig. That shake-up must have been just what the old buster needed." Toby bawled, knowing to what the other referred when he mentioned hold-ups.

Nat was trailing along in the rear, but coming apparently with no sign of another balk; although doubtless he lived in perpetual fear of something new springing a surprise on him. A motorcycle, once it gets to acting queer, can establish a reputation for opening up new avenues of trouble second to none.

"Hey, look ahead!" called Toby, presently, after they had covered another long distance of quite a number of miles.

Elmer, upon doing so, discovered that a couple of fellows occupied the middle of the road, and seemed to act as though they meant to stay there, no matter what came along.

As the motorcycle squad rushed toward them, Elmer had no great difficulty in recognizing Landy's cousin, George Robbins, and one of the Fairfield crowd, Angus McDowd.

They had their arms locked, and seemed on the best of terms with the world in general, though their steps had a tottery look, as Nat expressed it.

Finding themselves left far in the rear, these two had apparently made up their minds not to bother about who won the great hike; but to stick to each other, and take things as easy as they could.

Hearing the sputtering of the several machines, they looked back and waved their hands, evidently recognizing Elmer in the lead. Then they stepped to one side of the road so as to let the procession pass.

Elmer threw out his hand so as to warn Toby to slow up, as he meant to do that same, and did not wish to take the chances of being run down.

"How far are we from home?" shouted both the walkers, as Elmer came close.

"About twenty miles," he replied, for he had anticipated such a question, and prepared himself to meet it promptly.

"Is that all?" called Angus McDowd, who looked pretty much "all in."

"What's the news; who's ahead, Elmer?" called George, as the motorcycle passed.

"Lil Artha at last accounts, by a long lead!"

"Bully for Lil Artha!" both trampers shouted; for Angus was so tired himself that he really cared very little who won.

"How far ahead of us, hey?" shouted George.

"Only about thirteen miles, George," answered Toby as he flitted past with a fresh start.

"Oh, won't poor old Landy feel sore when he hears how the hope of the Philander Smiths has gone aglimmering!" mocked Nat, as he, too, went by.

George made a quick motion with his hand as though throwing something at his tormentor; then his care-free laugh floated after them.

About three miles farther along the road they discovered another sight.

"What's going on there?" shouted Toby, who again hung rather dangerously close in the rear of the leader, because he wanted a chance to exchange remarks from time to time.

"Looks like a breakdown, and that's a fact," Elmer replied.

"That's right," called Toby immediately. "It's Tom Cropsey, and he's trying to put a plug in his tire. He's got a puncture, and that ended his run as inspector."

The boy looked up as they drew near, and shook his head even as he grinned.

"All in, I reckon, Elmer, can't seem to fix her!" he called, as the scout leader flashed past.

Possibly he would have been glad if they had stopped in order to assist him repair the obstinate break; but Elmer had other fish to fry just then, and time was too valuable to waste in gaining a recruit who could never keep up with them for even half a mile.

So they presently saw the last of poor Tom, marooned so far away from home, and with night coming on apace.

Elmer knew that they might expect to overtake some of the others at any minute now, and every time he turned a bend he looked closely to see if there were not figures on the road ahead.

Nor was he mistaken.

A few more miles, and he saw a lone pedestrian manfully struggling onward, with a stout stick, which he had stopped to cut, assisting him. At first Elmer thought it was an old man hobbling along, until coming up on the party, the other wheeled.

"Hello, Jack, old fellow! making a game push for it, eh?" called Elmer, who had slowed down considerably, so as to give the contestant a cheery word to encourage him in persisting.

"Wow, but I guess I'm pretty near the limit, Elmer," answered the other, who turned out to be Jack Armitage. "How far have I come since morning, hey?"

"About twenty-four miles," answered Elmer, as he passed.

"Gee, is that all? Thought it was near fifty!" lamented the scout, as he waved his cane at both Toby and Nat as they went by and doubtless cast an envious look at the machines that were carrying them over the ground so easily, while he was completely done up, and ready to cry quits.

"Next!" shouted Nat, who was really enjoying this thing of overhauling the various used-up walkers more than anything that had come his way for a long time; it is always so nice to spin along on a wheel, or a motorcycle, or in a car, and pity the poor fellows who have to walk!

"Well, there he is, right beyond," said Toby over his shoulder.

"Who under the sun is it?" demanded the rider in the rear, whose view was somewhat obstructed by his companions.

"Blest if I know; looks a little like our Ty Collins!" Toby shot back.

"It is Ty; anybody ought to recognize that old red sweater of his," Elmer announced; "and he's got a fine stone bruise on his foot, if that limp means anything!"

The contestant stepped out of the road as they drew near. He stiffened up to salute, game to the last, and chasing away the look of pain that had been on his boyish face.

One of his shoes was held in his hand, and he had been walking along in this way, determined not to give up until the last gasp.

"Better throw up the sponge, Ty," called Elmer, who had the authority to order anyone out of the race who in his judgment was unfit to continue further.

Ty's face told that he welcomed this command, as it released him from all further responsibility, and he could retire with good grace.

"What'd I better do, Elmer?" he called out.

"Station four just ahead; stay there to-night. Some one come for you in morning!" the scout leader shouted back.

"All right, I will. Hello! Toby, and you ditto, Nat. Who's winning? That fast Fairfield fellow, Wagner, passed me a long time ago, going strong."

"Oh, Lil Artha is miles ahead of him!" replied Nat.

"Hurrah for the pride of Hickory Ridge troop! Bully for Lil Artha!" they heard Jack whoop as they sped onward.

Thus one by one they were fast picking up the contestants who were spread out along the road to Little Falls, covering many miles from the leader to the fellow far in the rear, the Hope of the Philander Smiths.

"There's the other bicycle boy, Phil Dale!" shouted Toby a little later, after they had passed the tavern which had been selected as the fourth station.

"And he's near played out, too. Look at him wabble, would you! Wow, he can't do many more miles at that rate!" Nat yelled.

Elmer gave a salute to warn the rider they were coming and wanted half the road. As he swept past Phil called out something, but Elmer failed to catch what he said, the others also went whooping by, no one having thought to slow down.

And so both inspectors as well as a number of the played-out contestants had been overhauled. They were now fast coming to the point where a crisis would be waiting for them. Twenty-seven miles from Hickory Ridge and evening close at hand, when the miserable plot of the Fairfield schemers could be put into play!