The Project Gutenberg eBook of The rival bicyclists

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The rival bicyclists

Or, fun and adventure on the wheel

Author: Edward Stratemeyer

Release date: April 25, 2025 [eBook #75952]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago: M. A. Donohue & Co, 1897

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75952

Credits: Aaron Adrignola, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIVAL BICYCLISTS ***

JOE LOWERED HIS BICYCLE TOWARDS PAUL.

“Rival Bicyclists.”

THE RIVAL BICYCLISTS;

OR,

FUN AND ADVENTURE ON THE WHEEL.

BY CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL,

Author of “Gun and Sled,” “The Young Oarsmen of Lakeview,”

“Leo the Circus Boy,” etc., etc.

CHICAGO:

M. A. DONOHUE & CO.

COPYRIGHT, 1897.

BY

W. L. ALLISON CO.

THE RIVAL BICYCLISTS.

CHAPTER I.

OFF ON THE WHEEL.

“WHAT do you say to a ride to Greenpoint and back to-night, Dick?”

“That suits me, Joe.”

“It will be full moonlight, and the ride over the valley road will be elegant.”

“True enough. When shall we start?”

“As soon as we have had supper.”

The two speakers were Dick Burns and Joe Johnson.

Dick Burns was the only son of the leading lawyer in Lockport. He was a bright fellow of seventeen, and a bicycle rider of no mean ability.

The other boy was Joe Johnson, the hero of the present tale.

At the time of which we write Joe was not quite fifteen years of age. He had been born in a little town in Ohio called Rayford’s Run, but ere he was seven years old his parents moved to Lockport, where Mr. Johnson obtained employment in a large carpet works.

Joe attended the village school and had a host of friends. Every one liked the young fellow because he was so straightforward and honest in all he did. “You can trust Joe to do it,” was a common expression among his schoolmates.

Just three months before the opening of this story Joe had become the proud possessor of a bicycle. It had cost a neat little sum of money, but he had earned every dollar of it himself by doing odd jobs during off hours from school and home duties.

Joe was very proud of his wheel, and he soon learned to ride exceedingly well.

“Keep on, Joe, and you’ll become an expert,” said Dick to him one day.

“I wouldn’t like anything better,” returned Joe promptly.

That evening, long before the sun went down, the moon came up full and clear.

Dick Burns ate his supper as soon as he could and then hurried around to Joe’s house.

“Joe!”

“Coming!” was the reply from the woodshed. “Just wait till I put this wood in the box behind the kitchen stove.”

Having finished his evening chores, Joe came out with his wheel.

He wore a neat suit his mother had made for him, and cut a nice figure as he rode away by Dick Burns’ side.

As the two wheeled through the village they met pretty Carrie Burns, Dick’s sister.

Joe tipped his hat and stopped to chat with her a few minutes.

There was a tall, slim boy who saw this and scowled deeply from behind a pile of boxes at the corner grocery. This boy was Lemuel Akers, and he was Joe’s one enemy.

On one occasion Lemuel had given Joe the lie direct in school, and, much to his astonishment, had been knocked down for doing it.

There had been a short fight, and Joe had shown that he was clearly the stronger boy of the two, even though he was much smaller than Lemuel.

The tall boy hated Joe greatly, and was watching his chances to “get square,” as he termed it.

He did not attack Joe openly, but, instead, waited to do some mean trick behind Joe’s back.

“Going off for a ride, eh?” muttered Lemuel Akers, as Joe and Dick proceeded on their way. “I would like to make trouble for him while he is gone! I wonder if I can’t think of something.”

All unconscious of what was going on in Lemuel’s mind, Joe pushed on his pedals and made a spurt.

“Catch me, Dick!” he called, and a lively race took place, and was kept up until the outskirts of the place for which they were bound were reached.

Greenpoint was a fine town on the edge of a great lake, and here the two boys took a half-hour’s rest, while Dick, who always had pocket money, treated to soda water.

The rest over, Dick proposed that they return home by a different route.

“Let us go up Bacon Hill,” he said. “We have got lots of time, and coasting down the other side will be simply immense.”

“It’s pretty risky coasting on that hill in the moonlight,” replied Joe.

“Oh, it’s all right. I was over the road only two days ago and it is in prime condition.”

“All right, come on. I can’t bear to rest any longer.”

Off they went again, but this time not so fast, as there was a long and rather steep hill to climb.

The top reached, they stopped just a minute to look over the surrounding landscape, bathed in the white light of the full moon, and then started on the down grade leading to the Pentaco River, and back to Lockport.

A single push on the pedals was sufficient. The grade was not great, but it was enough, and with their feet up on the coasters they went flying down the long stretch, gaining additional speed as they advanced.

“Fine, eh?” cried Dick Burns.

“Immense!” yelled Joe, who was in the lead. “Come on!”

“I’m coming,” was his reply.

But try his best, Dick could not quite reach Joe.

Over a mile was passed without the least accident, and then, far beyond, the two saw the river winding along and sparkling in the pale light.

On the other side of the stream there was another hill, so the “fly” would have to end at the bridge.

“Now for a grand finish!” called out Joe. “Catch me, if you can, Dick!”

“I’m coming!” sang out his companion again.

Nearer and nearer they came to the river, Joe still well in advance.

Suddenly both boys saw something which made their hearts fairly leap into their throats.

The bridge was down!

That very afternoon the workmen had torn down the wooden structure, to replace it soon with one of iron.

The boys had ridden along so fast that neither had noticed the several notices posted up that the river could not be crossed on this road.

“The bridge is gone!” groaned Dick Burns.

Joe said nothing.

It was impossible for the bicyclists to stop on that downward grade.

Almost before they could think, they were within twenty feet of the river.

It was a rock-bound mountain torrent, not deep, but highly dangerous.

A fall from the road into it, at the speed at which they were going, would certainly mean death.

Could the two boys escape?

CHAPTER II.

OUT OF A PERILOUS SITUATION.

JOE and Dick had to think and act quickly, for they were going at such speed that another second must decide their fate.

“To the right!” yelled Joe.

There was no time to say more.

He switched off, and at the same time threw his whole weight over.

The wheels of his bicycle slid along the road several yards, and it was only Joe’s skill that prevented him from taking the nastiest kind of a header.

Then he ran upon some planking from the torn-away bridge.

Dick tried to follow his lead, but was not so fortunate. He flew off his machine, and when Joe stopped, Dick went sailing directly over his head.

Both finally found themselves mixed up in a mass of planks and beams.

At first Joe could scarcely collect his thoughts. His clothing was much torn, and his left arm had been badly wrenched.

Dick Burns was unconscious.

Joe thought for the instant his friend was killed, and in his horror forgot all about his own bruises.

He picked Dick up and laid him down on the near-by grass. Then Dick stirred slightly, and Joe knew he was still alive.

He ran down to a pool and got some water in his cap, with which he bathed Dick’s face. He also rubbed his chum’s wrists.

Finally he had the satisfaction of seeing Dick open his eyes with a deep sigh.

“Dick, are you hurt?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I hit my chest.”

“Maybe you broke a rib or two?”

“I don’t know.”

It was fully fifteen minutes before Dick felt like sitting up.

By that time he felt sure that no bones had been broken. But he was so sore he could not think of riding home.

“We will have to go back to Greenpoint, and I would give out inside of a mile,” he said.

“If I could get a wagon we might drive home,” said Joe.

They talked the matter over, and finally our hero started off to hunt up a wagon.

He knew a number of farmers in the district, and felt pretty certain he could get a turnout from one or the other of them, especially when he made known that he wanted to take home Lawyer Burns’ son, who had been hurt.

Joe’s wheel, strange to say, had sustained no damage outside of a few bent spokes, and now he went off on the machine, leaving Dick sitting on the old bridge lumber.

“Come back as soon as you can, Joe.”

“Of course, Dick.”

The river was soon left out of sight, and Joe turned into a by-road, lined on either side with heavy trees.

Beneath, the trees formed an archway, which in the heat of the day gave a grateful shade to travelers.

But now, in spite of the moonlight, it was very dark here, and Joe had to slacken his speed for fear of going into a hole or striking a stone.

“I don’t want another trip-up,” he thought, as he pedaled along. “One such in a month is enough.”

Our hero was very thankful that he had escaped a plunge into the river.

Halfway to the house he was bound for the lad heard the sounds of voices coming from the roadside.

“I’m dead hungry, Gimpy,” he heard in the rough voice of a tramp. “Wot yer got fer supper?”

“Dare ain’t nuthin’ but a couple o’ handouts, Jimmie,” was the reply from a second tramp.

“Dat won’t do fer me. Say! Dare’s a big henhouse up at dat farm I just passed.”

“I know it.”

“Suppose we rake in a chicken or two? Da will go fine after wot we’ve had.”

“Dat’s so.”

“Dare ain’t nobuddy around der place but an old man an’ an old woman, and da’ll be going ter bed soon.”

“Well, I’m wid yer.”

Joe listened to this conversation with keen interest. He had stopped behind a big tree and had heard every word spoken.

He knew the farmhouse to which the two tramps referred. It was the very place for which he was bound.

The farmer’s name was Josiah Arkley, and he lived on the place with Susan, his sister.

They kept no hired help, and the farm was a good quarter mile from any other.

It would be an easy matter for the tramps to rob Josiah Arkley’s henhouse, for the old man and his sister always retired early.

Besides, the old pair were both slightly deaf, and it was not likely that they would hear the disturbance among the fowls.

As silently as a cat Joe left the vicinity. Once out of earshot of the tramps, he sped along to the Arkley farmhouse as fast as his wheel would carry him.

As he had surmised, the place was dark, for the old couple had long before gone to bed.

It took a deal of hammering on the front door to arouse Josiah Arkley.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, as he popped his head out of an upper window.

“Joe Johnson, Mr. Arkley.”

“And what brings you here, Joe?” asked the old farmer in surprise.

“Two things, sir. Come down as soon as you can, please.”

“I will.”

The window was shut down and all became quiet again.

Soon a light appeared below, the door was thrown open and Joe entered the farmhouse, taking his wheel with him. He found both of the old folks had dressed and come down.

“Now, what’s up, Joe?” asked the old man in a trembling voice.

“Well, in the first place, two tramps are on their way here to rob your hen roost.”

“Land sakes alive!” burst out Susan. “You don’t mean it, Joe?”

“Wait till I get my gun,” went on Josiah.

He ran into the kitchen and returned with an old-fashioned blunderbuss which was loaded and ready for use.

In a few words Joe told of the conversation he had overheard, to which the farmer and his sister listened with interest.

“I’ll fix ’em,” muttered Josiah.

He turned out the light and led the way to the shed built on the side of the kitchen.

From here a good view of the chicken-house, not a hundred feet away, could be obtained.

Joe looked out of the window over the old man’s shoulder.

“Here they come!” he whispered, for the two tramps had just leaped a side fence.

The intruders separated, and while one remained on guard, the other made a tour around the house.

Apparently satisfied that they were not observed, the two tramps sneaked back toward the chicken-house.

In this building old Josiah Arkley kept about two dozen prize fowls.

He did not believe in owning many, but what he did have were of the best, many of them being worth three and four dollars apiece for breeding purposes.

The sight of the tramps excited the old man very much, and it was with difficulty that Joe and old Susan kept him from shooting down the would-be offenders without warning.

“Why don’t you capture them and take them to jail?” suggested Joe.

“I can’t capture two men alone.”

“I’ll help you,” said Joe.

“So will I,” added Susan Arkley.

The two latter at once armed themselves.

Joe procured Josiah Arkley’s heaviest cane, which was little short of being a club.

Old Susan brought forth a broom—an old one which was worn down to a hard stub at the end.

In the meanwhile one of the tramps had pried the padlock from the chicken-house door.

Now one of them stood by the open door while the other went inside.

“Come on!” whispered Josiah Arkley, and he led the way out of the house.

Silently the three sneaked along by the well and dairy until within six yards of the fowl-house.

“You villains, throw up your hands or I will shoot!” suddenly cried Josiah Arkley.

The tramps were dumfounded for the minute. Then the one at the door began to yell.

“Dere’s onto us, Gimpy!”

“Stand still, do you hear?” cried old Josiah.

“Not much!” howled the fellow called Jimmie. “I ain’t doin’ time dis summer!” and he started to run.

Bang! went the blunderbuss, and the tramp received a dose of shot in his leg and fell groaning beside the dairy.

Then out came the second tramp. Joe rushed at him and struck him with the club.

The tramp turned on our hero, and a second later both were rolling over and over on the ground.

CHAPTER III.

JOE IS ACCUSED OF A CRIME.

THE tramp did not mean that he should be captured. The summer was at its height, and during this portion of the year tramps hate to be sent to jail.

In the winter they do not mind it so much, for then they are assured of a warm place to stay and enough to eat.

But Joe had made up his mind to capture the tramp.

He held on with a great grip, and in vain the vagabond tried to shake him off.

“Let me git after him with the broom!” shrieked Susan Arkley, dancing about.

While Joe was struggling old Josiah Arkley went after the tramp who had been shot.

This fellow was full of rage, and now he threatened to injure the farmer’s head with a rock.

It promised to be a lively time all around.

But Joe soon settled matters, so far as it concerned the man with whom he was wrestling.

He broke loose, and then the fellow received a blow in the face that made him shriek with pain.

In the meantime Josiah Arkley had struck the other tramp with the end of the blunderbuss. Susan had followed with half a dozen whacks from the broom, and now the chap was pleading for mercy.

“Give a feller a show ter live!” he groaned. “Oh! me head! Don’t hit me agin!”

“Now, Susan, stand guard over him till I git a rope,” went on old Josiah.

He disappeared into the barn and soon came out with ropes and old bits of harness. With these the tramp was secured, hands and feet.

“Good for you, Joe,” exclaimed the old farmer, when he saw what our hero had accomplished.

“Bind him, too, Mr. Arkley.”

“Sure, Joe, sure,” was the reply, and soon the second tramp was a prisoner.

Both were dragged into the barn and there bound fast to rings in separate stalls.

The old farmer would take no chances of their escaping while he went to notify the authorities.

The tramps in custody, Joe told the farmer about the accident at the bridge.

Josiah Arkley at once agreed to let Joe have his large farm wagon and a team.

This would give the two boys plenty of room for themselves and their bicycles.

“You can put the team up in Mr. Burns’ barn, and I’ll be over for it to-morrow,” said the farmer.

This was agreed to, and Joe drove off, taking Josiah Arkley with him until the turn in the road beyond the heavy trees was reached.

Then the farmer left him to walk to the next village for a constable, while Joe turned the team toward the river.

Our hero found Dick where he had left him.

“You have been gone a long time, Joe,” cried Dick. “I thought you were never coming back.”

“That’s so; I had something happen that I didn’t look for,” returned Joe.

And as he helped Dick into the wagon on the top of a number of blankets, he told his friend of what had occurred. Dick was much astonished.

“It’s a good job done to capture those tramps,” he remarked. “Father says the law against them isn’t half strong enough.”

Joe piled the two bicycles on the back of the wagon. Dick’s was sadly bent and would have to be sent away for repairs.

“Never mind,” said the lawyer’s son. “I am very thankful we both escaped with our lives.”

“And so am I,” said Joe with a shudder, as he started the team off.

On they jogged slowly until the few lights of the town appeared in sight. By this time Dick was much fatigued, and Joe had to drive slower than ever.

When they turned into the Burns garden the house door opened and the lawyer came out.

“Hullo! I thought it was Dick returning,” he called out.

“It is I, father,” replied the son. “We’ve been in a smash-up.”

At once the lawyer came down, and soon his wife and Carrie Burns followed.

Dick was helped out of the wagon and almost carried into the house, where he was made comfortable on his bed.

Dick told the lawyer about the team, and Mr. Burns willingly consented to keep it over night.

“And I’ll pay Mr. Arkley, too,” he said.

Joe put the team up and was on the point of leaving, when a man rushed up to the house.

It was Simon Pepper, the village watchmaker. He kept a small store on the main street, filled with watches, clocks, and cheap jewelry.

“Ha! I have you!” he cried, running up to Joe and catching our hero by the arm.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Pepper?” asked Joe in surprise.

“You know well enough what’s the matter,” fumed the watchmaker. He was a little man and of a very excitable nature.

“I must say I haven’t the slightest idea,” returned Joe.

“Indeed!” was the sneering return. “Maybe you haven’t been around my shop.”

“I was around there yesterday to get our clock.”

“Exactly; and you asked me about my highest-priced jewelry, too.”

“I asked about the jewelry. I want to save up and get my mother a pin for her birthday.”

“Just so, just so. And you took that key, you rascal!”

“What key?”

“You know well enough. Oh, you are a smart boy, Joe Johnson, but you can’t play any such trick on me.”

And in his rage Simon Pepper shook his fist in Joe’s face.

“Mr. Pepper, won’t you explain yourself?” put in Mr. Burns curiously.

“Of course, of course, Mr. Burns, in a minute! But I can’t stand it to have this young rascal act so cool about it! Just as if he didn’t know a word!”

“And I don’t know a word,” added Joe promptly.

“Well, maybe you’ll know more when you are behind the bars! Do you hear? Behind the bars! I came to see Mr. Burns about the case.”

“A case against Joe?” asked the lawyer.

“Precisely, Mr. Burns.”

“What has he done?”

“Done enough to send him to State’s prison for ten years.”

“Impossible!”

“It is false!” burst from Joe’s lips. The lad could scarcely believe his ears.

“It ain’t false; it’s true. Yesterday he was in my store and stole the key to the back door. To-night he has been in there and robbed me of nigh on to a hundred dollars’ worth of jewelry. I’m going to have him arrested, and then I’m going to get a warrant and search his home.”

“I never stole a thing in my life!” ejaculated Joe.

“I can prove it, boy, I can prove it! Do you know why? Because I found your knife back of the very showcase that was robbed. You used that knife to throw the catch back on the lock. Don’t you dare to deny it, or attempt to run away!”

CHAPTER IV.

JOE DECLARES HIS INNOCENCE.

FOR a moment Joe could not speak. Here he was accused of robbing Simon Pepper’s jewelry shop that very night, when he had not been near the place.

He felt in his pocket. True enough, his pocket-knife was gone.

“Oh, I’ve got the knife safe enough,” sneered Simon Pepper. “You needn’t look for it.”

“Perhaps Joe dropped the knife yesterday, when he came for the clock,” suggested the lawyer.

“No, he didn’t. I swept up, and I would have found it before.”

“Joe has been out bicycling with my son.”

“I can’t help that! He robbed the place, I feel sure of it,” snapped Simon Pepper. “I’m going to have him locked up, and then have his house searched.”

“You can search the house, and welcome,” said Joe promptly. “You will find nothing there belonging to you.”

“Maybe I will—unless you have taken the stuff off to some other place,” retorted the unreasonable jeweler.

In vain Mr. Burns protested that Joe might be innocent. The hot-headed jeweler would not listen, and the upshot of the matter was that Joe was marched to the justice’s house.

Here, as late as it was, a hearing was had.

The watchmaker told his story, and told of the pocket-knife.

Then he procured a search warrant, that he might search Mr. Johnson’s home.

Joe accompanied the crowd to the house. His mother sat up waiting for him. She was very much disturbed, as Joe was in the habit of returning home much earlier than was now the time.

“Oh, what is the matter!” she cried.

“It’s all right, mother,” cried Joe. “Mr. Pepper has got it into his head that I robbed his shop, but I didn’t, and he can’t prove it.”

“Oh, Joe!”

Mr. Johnson was called, and soon he learned the particulars of the case on hand.

He believed Joe’s story that he was innocent.

Simon Pepper, with a constable, who had come along, now searched the house from cellar to garret. Of course, not a thing belonging to the watchmaker was found.

“Didn’t I tell you so!” cried Joe, and not without a slight ring of triumph in his tones.

After searching the house the party went to the barn, and to the woodshed, but all to no purpose.

“You can easily see that you have made a mistake, Mr. Pepper,” said Joe’s father.

“I don’t see. Maybe he has already sold the stuff he took,” growled the watchmaker.

He would not listen to Joe’s story of the accident on the road, and of what had happened at old Josiah Arkley’s house.

He wanted Joe arrested, and the justice had to take his complaint.

But the official knew Mr. Burns very well, and at once accepted bail from the lawyer for the boy.

“And I’ll defend you when the trial comes off,” he said to Joe. “We all believe you innocent.”

Joe went home with his father rather downcast. It was one thing to be innocent, but it was quite another to prove it. He knew many in the village would look at him as a thief.

A shadow on one’s character is very depressing.

On the following day Joe called on Dick Burns, and found him much improved, but still unable to go out. It would be some time before Dick would be able to ride his wheel again.

“Pepper must be crazy!” declared Dick. “Never mind, I’ll tell what I know of the matter. You were with me nearly all the evening.”

“One thing is certain,” said Joe. “His store was robbed. I wonder who did it?”

“Maybe tramps,” suggested Dick, and there the question dropped.

Joe was glad of one thing, and that was that Dick’s sister also looked on him as being innocent.

Several days went by, and Joe’s trial was set down for the last Wednesday in the month.

In the meanwhile the boys at Elmwood, four miles from Lockport, got up an amateur bicycle tournament.

Joe entered the two-mile event, along with half a dozen boys from Elmwood, and three lads from Lockport.

Among those from the latter place was Lemuel Akers. The big boy was conceited enough to think he would win the race, although there were a score of boys in the district who could ride better than he.

Joe was not so certain of himself, but he told Dick he would do his best.

“And that’s all a chap can do, you know,” he said.

“Do your best, Joe, and you will win,” said his chum confidently.

The day for the races dawned bright and clear, and among those who attended were Joe’s parents and the entire Burns family.

Joe cut a very trim figure as he rode on to the track in the parade, which headed off the entertainment.

Only one boy looked at our hero with disdain, and that was Lemuel.

As he passed Joe he muttered something about “jailbird.”

“What’s that?” demanded Joe sharply.

“You heard me well enough,” sneered the big boy.

Scarcely had he spoken when Joe leaned from his seat and struck Akers over the mouth with the flat of his hand.

CHAPTER V.

JOE’S FIRST RACE.

SEVERAL who were riding close by saw Joe strike Akers.

As for Lemuel himself, he was so astonished that for the moment he could scarcely speak.

“What do you mean by that?” he managed to gasp at last.

He had half-leaped, half-tumbled from his machine, and now he strode up to Joe, his face dark with passion.

“I mean a good deal,” retorted Joe, and he leaped down in front of Akers.

“What’s the row, Joe?”

“What did you strike Akers for?”

“It’s against the rules to scrap on the grounds.”

“He called me a jailbird, boys, and I won’t take that from any one, rules or no rules.”

“For shame, Akers!”

“Joe hasn’t been proved guilty yet.”

“And he isn’t guilty, to my way of thinking.”

Nearly all of the boys sided with Joe.

“Humph, evidently you are all with him, and I’ve got no rights here,” growled Lemuel Akers.

“You have certainly no right to call him a jailbird,” returned the manager of the races warmly. “I don’t blame Joe for slapping you in the mouth.”

“I’ll fix him for it!” grumbled Lemuel, but instead of advancing upon Joe, who stood on guard and ready to administer a good thrashing to the bully, he backed away, mounted his wheel, and rode off to another part of the grounds.

After that Akers was knowing enough to keep out of Joe’s way until the two-mile race came off.

There was that in Joe’s eye that warned him to beware, and, as we have said before, he was a coward at heart.

The two-mile race was the last of all.

A big crowd had assembled, for several valuable prizes were to be given to the winners of the first and second place.

The boys lined up in good form.

“All ready?”

There was no answer.

Bang!

Off went the pistol, and off went the racers. It was a splendid start.

The track was a quarter of a mile around, so the boys had to cover eight laps in order to make the two miles.

At the first lap one of the Elmwood boys was in the lead, with Lemuel Akers second, and another boy third.

The second lap was the same, excepting that Lemuel was crowding the leader pretty closely.

“Akers is going to win that race!”

“I’ll bet on Donnelly!”

On the third lap Joe dropped to fourth place.

“Wake up, Joe!” shouted Dick Burns. “Wake up!”

Joe paid no attention to this remark, but kept his eyes straight ahead.

On the next lap there was a bunch up among the three last riders, and two went down, with the third over them.

Friends helped the unfortunates off the track, just in time to avoid a collision with the leaders on the next lap.

Around and around went the remaining riders until the last lap was on.

Lemuel Akers was leading, Donnelly second, and Joe third.

“Go it, Akers!”

“Catch him, Donnelly!”

“Go, Joe, go!”

The last cry was from Dick Burns’ sister, and it seemed to put new life into our hero.

Away he went like a flash. It was an extraordinary spurt, and told only too well what was in Joe’s make-up as a bicyclist.

They were on the home stretch.

Donnelly was also spurting.

In vain Lemuel Akers tried to maintain his lead.

Donnelly crept up inch by inch and finally passed him.

“It’s Donnelly’s race!”

“I told you he could beat Akers.”

But now the crowd suddenly held its breath.

Like a meteor Joe was coming up.

Nothing could stop him.

With flashing wheels he rushed by Akers.

Donnelly was but a yard ahead.

And the tape but ten yards distant.

Donnelly did his best, but in vain.

“Joe Johnson has won!”

It was true, for our hero had come over the tape just one foot ahead of Donnelly.

The crowd went wild and shouted itself hoarse. The Lockport boys rushed to Joe, hauled him from his wheel, and marched around the track with their hero on their shoulders.

It was a great day for Joe, and one that he never forgot.

Dick Burns was almost as much pleased as our hero.

“I knew you could do it, Joe,” he said. “One of these days you will be a leading racer, mark my words.”

And Dick’s sister also praised Joe.

Lemuel Akers was much taken down by Joe’s victory. As soon as he could he left the race track grounds and started off for a little village called Bailey’s, two miles to the west.

Here Akers spent a good two hours at the tavern.

He was not above drinking, and now he took just enough to make him thoroughly ugly.

“I’ll fix him yet,” muttered Lemuel to himself. “He shan’t ride it over me.”

Lemuel felt doubly chagrined because Dick Burns’ sister no longer noticed him.

It was not until evening that Akers started to return to Lockport.

In the meanwhile Joe had returned home and had supper.

Our hero felt rather wakeful after his hard ride, and thought a quiet spin on his wheel just before going to bed would do him good.

So he went off alone, a crowd of boys cheering him as he passed out of sight.

He was a hero, and for the time being, at least, the fact that he was under suspicion was forgotten.

Joe pedaled along for about a mile very slowly. Then he came to a part of the road which was fringed with blackberry bushes. The ripe fruit looked so tempting that he dismounted, and, setting his machine against a tree, began to gather some to eat. While he was doing this Lemuel Akers came along.

“Hullo! what are you doing there?” he demanded.

“None of your business,” replied Joe sharply. He had not forgotten Lemuel’s insult at the race track.

“Don’t you know this is my uncle’s land?” went on the big boy.

“It’s not fenced in, and any one has a right to pick these berries along the road,” responded our hero.

“You have no right, and I want you to skip!” roared Akers savagely.

And then, as he rode close to Joe, he struck our hero with a stout stick he carried.

“That’s for hitting me at the race track,” he cried, and wheeled off at top speed.

Joe was somewhat stunned by the blow from the stick. He staggered into the bushes, and in consequence one hand was scratched in several places.

But he quickly recovered, and, mounting his wheel, rode after Akers.

Finding himself pursued, the bully pedaled along at top speed down a side road. At first it looked as if he would get away from Joe, but just as the foot of a long hill was reached, our hero caught up beside him.

“Stop, Akers, or I’ll knock you off of your machine!” cried Joe.

“Don’t you dare to touch me!” screamed Akers.

He tried to go on, and, seeing this, Joe gave him a shove, which hurled the rascal to the ground.

Lemuel went down on his bicycle, half a dozen spokes of which were badly bent in the fall. When he arose he found Joe also on the ground, but on his feet.

“Now, see what you have done, you jailbird,” he cried.

“Take back those words, Lemuel Akers!” exclaimed Joe. “I warned you before, and I won’t warn you again.”

“I won’t take ’em back,” howled the big boy. “You are a jailbird and a thief, and every one——”

Lemuel went no further.

Joe’s right fist shot out like lightning. The big boy was caught fairly on the chin, and over he went flat on his back in the dirt of the road.

CHAPTER VI.

PAUL JOHNSON’S PERIL.

LEMUEL AKERS was so dazed by the blow he had received that it was fully a minute before he recovered sufficiently to stand on his feet.

“What did you hit me with that club for?” he bellowed.

“I hit with my fist, and I’ll do it again unless you take back what you said,” replied Joe. “I’ll fight you with one hand,” he added.

Lemuel Akers was fearfully frightened. He had never imagined that our hero was so strong. He glared at Joe, but did not dare attack him just then.

“I’ll fix you one of these days,” he muttered, and picked up his wheel.

“I want you to take back what you said,” went on Joe calmly, and he came a step closer to Lemuel.

The big boy was now thoroughly scared. He would have run away, but he understood that such an attempt would be fruitless.

“I—I—maybe I made a mistake,” he whined.

“You are a low, despicable fellow, Lemuel Akers! Now go; and beware how you speak of me in the future.”

So speaking, Joe turned on his heel, mounted his wheel, and rode off. He was thoroughly disgusted with Lemuel.

The meeting had disturbed our hero not a little, and it took an hour’s riding to make him easy in mind once more.

Lemuel’s words rang most unpleasantly in his ears. Would they convict him when the trial came off? Would they really send him to jail? The thought was fearful. His fair name would be blasted forever.

“I must do something toward clearing myself,” he thought. “If only I could find the real thief!”

On the following day a heavy storm came up. It rained for forty-eight hours, and, in consequence, the river which flowed to the west of Lockport was considerably swollen.

Joe’s younger brother, Paul, owned a rowboat, which was tied up on this stream. The rowboat broke away, and on the day it cleared, Paul went off in search of his property.

Joe had some work to do about the house after school hours, but about four o’clock in the afternoon he finished up, and then rode off on his wheel to see what had become of Paul, and if his brother’s boat had been found.

The roads were heavy after the rain, and wheeling was not very good. Joe went along slowly, and in several places he had to dismount and walk.

Just as he neared the stream he met three villainous-looking tramps. They had been camping out in an old shanty by the roadside. The tramps saw Joe some distance off, and at once began to whisper together.

“Hi, there, young feller!” called one of the tramps.

“What is it?” asked Joe.

“Give us a bit of terbacker, will yer?”

“I don’t use it.”

“Then give us the price o’ a paper, that’s a good son.”

“I have nothing for you.”

“Don’t git imperdent, son.”

And then the three tramps placed themselves directly in Joe’s path.

It was a lonely part of the road, and our hero realized that the tramps intended to stop him and go through his pockets. It was not the first time such a hold-up had occurred in the vicinity.

“Clear the way!” cried Joe sharply.

“Just you step down and pony up,” returned the leader of the trio.

“I won’t. Look out!”

As Joe spoke he turned back as if to retreat. At once the three tramps made after him.

Our hero waited until they were somewhat scattered, and then he turned again.

Like a flash he passed the two leading road ruffians.

The third tramp, a slight-built fellow, was directly in his way.

Whack! Joe’s wheel hit him directly in the side, and with a howl he went down in the mud.

Joe was almost unseated, but he managed to right his machine, and on he went.

When he had covered a good fifty yards he looked back. All three of the tramps were shaking their fists after him.

“That’s the time I got out of a tight pocket,” said Joe to himself.

The tramps did not remain long in the vicinity. They were afraid Joe would return with help and place them under arrest.

Ten minutes later brought our hero to the river. He was surprised to see how greatly the recent rains had swollen it. From a small creek it had grown into a swiftly-flowing river.

He looked up and down for Paul, but could see nothing of his brother.

“I’ll go below to Factory Falls,” he thought. “Maybe the boat went over the falls and was smashed to pieces.”

There was a fair road along the river bank, and along this our hero wheeled his way.

Presently he came to an iron bridge which spanned the river. Not fifty feet below were the Factory Falls, where the waters dropped a distance of twenty feet and more.

Joe wheeled on the bridge, and as he did so he noticed a rowboat away up the stream, with a single occupant in it.

As the rowboat came nearer, Joe saw that the person in it was a boy. He was standing up and waving his hands wildly.

“By jinks! That fellow has no oars!” exclaimed our hero suddenly.

On came the rowboat. It was caught in the mad current, and in a few minutes more would pass under the bridge and be hurled over the roaring falls.

Then Joe made a discovery that caused his heart to leap into his throat.

The boat was Paul’s craft and the occupant was his brother!

“Save me! Save me!” screamed Paul Johnson.

He saw Joe and held out his hands in despair.

What was to be done?

A thought flashed across Joe’s mind. There was one way in which his brother might be saved—only one.

Catching hold of one end of his bicycle our hero lowered the other end over the side of the bridge.

He leaned down as far as he dared.

“Catch hold of the wheel, Paul!” he yelled hoarsely.

Ten seconds more and it would be decided if Paul Johnson would be saved or if he would be dashed over the falls to his death.

The rowboat was coming along swiftly. Already it was in the shadow of the bridge.

Joe bent down still further. One hand clutched the wheel, the other a brace of the bridge.

And now the rowboat was directly beneath. Paul stretched out his hands, but could not reach the wheel.

“Jump! It’s your only chance!” shouted Joe.

And leaping on a seat, Paul jumped as high as he could.

His fingers grasped the lower rim of the bicycle wheel.

From under him swept the frail rowboat, to be dashed to pieces over the falls but a moment later.

The weight of his brother’s body was a great strain on Joe, but he managed to keep himself on the bridge.

“Hold tight, Paul!” he cried encouragingly.

“I will, but I can’t climb!” gasped the younger boy.

“I’ll pull you up!”

And Joe did pull him up, until Paul was able to step upon a bridge support and spring to the foot-planks.

Paul Johnson was saved!

He let out a sob and threw himself into his brother’s arms.

“Oh, Joe!”

It was all he could say, but the way he uttered the words was enough.

Joe was scarcely less affected. To lose his younger brother would have been a bitter blow to him.

For some time the two boys remained on the bridge to catch their breath and to get over the intense strain they had endured.

“Your boat is gone, Paul,” said Joe, at length.

“I don’t care. I wouldn’t want to go on the river any more, anyhow,” shuddered Paul.

“It always was a dangerous sport, Paul. Let us both save up, and we’ll buy a wheel for you to ride.”

Paul was too much overcome to walk home, and he rode behind Joe the greater part of the distance.

Our hero wanted to say nothing about the rescue, but Paul would not keep silent, and soon it was related how Joe had played the part of a hero.

CHAPTER VII.

THE BULLY RECEIVES A LESSON.

THE next morning when Joe went to school he was immediately surrounded by a crowd of the boys.

“Lemuel Akers says you intend to fight him with one hand,” said half a dozen at once.

“I said I would,” replied Joe. “I don’t want to fight, but he must be more civil with his tongue.”

Many of the boys shook their heads at this. They believed Joe could whip the bully with two hands, but when it came to one hand only they were doubtful.

Many of the boys expected an encounter between the pair before school, but the bully was late and school was called when he came along.

There would be no chance to fight at noon, so it was arranged that the encounter should occur after school.

But toward the middle of the afternoon the sky grew black, and soon it began to rain.

“That will spoil all,” said Larry Dare, one of the boys. “They can’t fight in a howling rainstorm.”

“True,” replied Sam Anderson, another of the pupils. “They’ll have to wait until to-morrow.”

When school let out it was raining as hard as ever.

The master was in a hurry to get off and called one of the big boys to him.

“Lathrop,” he said. “I am going off. If the boys want to stay in the schoolroom until it clears off let them. I will look to you to lock up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Lathrop, see to it that no skylarking occurs,” added Mr. Chalmondey, as he left.

“Yes, sir,” replied Lathrop again, and grinned from ear to ear.

“Now is your chance, fellows!” he cried as soon as the master was gone. “Have it out and done with.”

“I am willing,” said Joe quietly, but with determination.

“So am I,” growled the bully, who felt sure that he could give our hero a sound drubbing.

A piece of rope was procured, and after Joe had fixed up his clothing to suit himself, his left hand was tied behind him. Then Lemuel Akers faced him, and a ring was formed.

“All ready?” asked Larry Dare. “Very well, now go in and wax him, Joe!”

“It’s Lem will do the waxing!” retorted Jake Foley, one of the bully’s toadies.

Our hero and the bully watched each other like two cats. For several seconds neither made any effort to reach each other.

Then Lemuel struck out, but Joe leaped to one side.

With only one hand it was useless to attempt to parry a blow.

Then out shot his fist, and the bully caught a stinging blow that caused him to stagger back against a desk.

“Good for Joe!” cried a large part of the crowd.

As quickly as he could Lemuel rushed up once again. He struck out several times in quick succession and at last his left hand reached Joe’s neck.

It left a long scratch behind it.

Our hero immediately made an important discovery. Lemuel, even with the advantage of two hands against one, was not fighting him fair.

The bully had something sharp concealed in the palm of each closed hand.

The moment that Joe made the discovery that the bully was not fighting fair he called out time.

“Got enough, have you!” cried Jake Foley.

“I’ve got enough of this sort of fighting,” replied our hero calmly.

“Why, what’s the matter, Joe?” questioned Larry.

“Lemuel Akers is not fighting me fair.”

At this announcement nearly all the boys were greatly astonished.

“He is fighting fair,” blustered Jake Foley.

“He is not—and you know it,” retorted Joe. “He has something hard and sharp doubled up in each hand.”

“It’s a lie!” blustered the bully.

“Make him open both of his hands!” suggested several boys.

“You mind your own business,” put in Jake Foley.

“It’s my business to see that Joe has a fair show,” said Larry Dare.

“That’s right,” added Sam Anderson.

“See here, I am here to fight, not to talk,” howled Lemuel.

“But you must fight fair,” said Carl Lathrop. “If you are honest, open both of your hands.”

This the bully would not do.

While he was hesitating Joe winked to Larry.

He retired for an instant, then came forward and caught the bully by both wrists.

“Now open your fists,” he said sternly.

“Let go my wrists.”

In vain Lemuel tried to free himself.

Jake Foley wanted to spring in at Joe, but Sam and Larry held him back.

Soon Lemuel began to squirm, for Joe was pressing his wrists hard.

“Don’t break my hands!” shrieked the bully at last.

“Then open your fists,” said our hero, and unable to endure the pressure longer, the bully opened both hands.

Two sharp pieces of iron about half an inch in diameter fell to the floor.

A howl went up from the schoolboys.

“Joe was right!”

“Shame on you, Akers!”

“Give him a big licking now, Joe!”

Suddenly Joe let go his hold. Then he hauled off and gave the bully a sharp poke right in the nose.

The blood spouted, and the bully fell with a crash up against a desk. For fully a minute he lay dazed, his eyes rolling wildly.

Jake Foley assisted Lemuel to rise.

As the big boy got up a vivid streak of lightning nearly blinded every one in the schoolroom.

There followed a deafening peal of thunder, which shook the building from top to bottom. Instead of abating, the storm was increasing in violence.

The thunder and lightning drove all thoughts of fighting out of the scholars’ minds. They huddled together, Joe surrounded by his friends.

Not far away stood Lemuel and Foley, both shaking in their shoes.

The rain came down in torrents, and Carl Lathrop went around to shut up all the windows.

“This is the worst yet,” he said. “I’m glad I ain’t on the road.”

“Maybe it would be safer on the road than in here,” observed Sam, as the roll of thunder sounded out again.

“Maybe,” replied Carl.

A few minutes passed, and it looked as if the rain was letting up.

Akers and Foley moved toward the door, for they wished to get away just as quick as they could.

“I’ll fix you another time,” growled the bully, looking toward Joe.

“I’ll be ready for you any time,” returned our hero calmly. “But you’ll have to fight fair.”

At that instant a blinding flash of lightning struck terror to nearly every one in the building.

Amid the roar of thunder the lightning seemed to enter the schoolroom by the open doorway.

It ran along several desks, and, with a report like that of a gun, disappeared up the chimney.

Larry Dare was knocked flat, and several others were partly stunned.

A sulphurous odor filled the place, and a moment later a fire blazed up near the chimneypiece.

“Get out of here, boys!” cried Joe. “Quick!”

Blinded and confused, the boys ran out of the building into the pelting rain.

Joe waited long enough to pick up Larry’s unconscious form, and then he followed.

There was a shed not far away, and here Larry was placed on an old door. He was not seriously hurt, and soon returned to consciousness.

The boys were so bewildered they did not know what to do. They stood around like a flock of sheep.

“The schoolhouse is on fire!” suddenly cried Carl Lathrop. “See the smoke coming out of the door!”

But this report was not true, and presently the boys went back to the building. The bully of the school, however, had disappeared.

CHAPTER VIII.

A GALLANT SWIM.

THE next day on account of the damage to the chimney, which was almost completely demolished by the lightning, there was no school and Joe and Sam Anderson got together and went off for a morning’s fishing.

The mountain streams about the place were much swollen because of the heavy rain, and they had little hope of catching much, but they thought the outing would be pleasant.

They started out bright and early, their poles over their shoulders and their tackle in a basket.

They soon had their lines in readiness, each fixed with a tempting bait.

Joe was the first to cast in, and also the first to draw out a fine fat fish, but Sam was not far behind.

Then they went further up the stream, each with a small string of fish at the end of his rod.

Hardly a hundred feet had been covered when a shrill scream startled both boys.

“What was that?” cried Sam, coming to a halt.

“A woman’s voice,” responded our hero.

Both listened intently.

Again the shrill cry rang out, coming from some distance up the stream.

“Come on!” called Joe, and set off on a run with Sam beside him.

A beautiful young girl was struggling wildly in the middle of the swiftly-flowing stream.

She had been in the act of crossing a cove when the bridge gave way in the center.

“She will be drowned,” ejaculated Sam Anderson.

“It is Carrie Burns!” called out Joe, a second later, and with a wildly beating heart.

“What’s to do?” asked Sam, as he stood helpless.

Our hero thought for a moment. To swim out into midstream and save the girl was out of the question. The water ran so swiftly no landing could be made with any burden.

“The fishlines!” cried Joe. “Be quick, Sam.”

He brought out his own line and Sam’s and twisted them together.

Then fastening the end of this double line around his waist he leaped boldly into the mountain torrent.

The water bubbled and foamed all around him. But he struck out undaunted.

“Save me!” cried Carrie Burns, and then she went under the surface, to reappear at a distance of fifty feet down stream.

When she came up Joe was but a few yards away. He struck out with renewed energy and soon managed to catch hold of her by the arm.

“Cling to me, Carrie!” he said, “and I will save you.”

“Oh, Joe, do not let me drown!” gasped the poor, frightened girl.

She clung to our hero, and he called out to Sam to haul in on the fishlines.

“And be careful,” he added, “or the line——”

He got no further.

Crack! Both lines parted and down the stream went Joe and the girl he was trying to save.

The force of the mountain stream rolled our hero and the girl over and over.

The girl gasped with terror and consequently swallowed a large quantity of water.

This filled her with terror and she clutched at Joe’s neck until he was almost strangled.

But he managed finally to keep her at a distance and in this manner they swept on and on.

The boy knew that something must be done, and that quickly. The girl could not endure the water much longer.

He looked ahead. Twenty yards further down stream was a clump of willows. Some of the long lashes hung within a foot or two of the surface of the bubbling torrent.

Could he grasp hold as they sped by? He resolved to try.

In a second more he was directly beneath the first of the overhanging boughs.

He sprang up as far as he could and caught hold of a handful of the lashes.

For a brief half-minute they held him, then one after another parted and he and his fair burden swept onward.

But Joe was not dismayed by this failure.

Another bough was reached, and again his hand went up. This time he caught hold of a strong bough, and although it bent far into the water, it did not break.

“Sam! Sam!” he called.

“I’m coming!” was the reply, and Sam Anderson appeared at the foot of the willow tree.

“Can you crawl out on the limb and help me?”

“I’ll try it,” replied Sam Anderson.

Throwing down his rods and lines Sam began the ascent of the tree.

Soon he was at a point directly over our hero’s head.

Holding on to the willow lashes with one hand, Joe raised the limp form of the girl with the other.

A lot of muscle was required to reach Sam, but it was not wanting.

As soon as Sam had Carrie Burns safe on the upper branch Joe climbed into the tree without trouble.

Between them they managed to get the girl to shore. Here they worked over her for ten minutes. At the end of that time she opened her eyes and sat up.

“Where am I?” she asked faintly.

“You are safe, Carrie, don’t worry,” replied Joe gently.

It was a full hour before Carrie Burns felt strong enough to return to her home.

Once again Joe was praised for his bravery. Mr. and Mrs. Burns were particularly warm toward our hero, while Dick fairly hugged him.

On the following day school opened as usual.

Jake Foley sneaked in without saying a word to anybody.

Lemuel Akers did not appear, nor did he show up for a week. Then he pretended to ignore Joe entirely.

About a week later Carl Lathrop proposed a game of hare and hounds.

The others eagerly assented, and an afternoon was set for the game.

Joe and Carl were chosen as hares, and Larry and Sam as captains of the hounds, or “whippers-in.”

To those who have never played the game, we would say that the hares are given a certain time to get away in, leaving a trail of white bits of paper behind them. Usually a game lasts half, or at times a whole day.

School let out early, and five minutes later our hero and Carl Lathrop were ready to leave, each with a big bag of white paper under his arm.

“All ready!” asked Sam.

“Yes.”

“Then away! Ten minutes for a start and no more!”

On the instant Joe and Carl were off.

“Which way?” asked Carl.

“Let us make for the Sand Cliffs.”

“All right.”

The Sand Cliffs were back of a long series of hills, about four miles from the schoolhouse.

As the two boys ran on they talked about the others.

“It’s funny Lemuel Akers wouldn’t join in,” said Carl. “I suppose he is mad because he wasn’t chosen a hare.”

“Well, somebody must be a hound,” replied Joe. “Never mind; let us forget the mean fellow.”

An hour’s running brought them to the Sand Cliffs.

“We must be pretty well ahead,” said Carl. “Let us rest for a few minutes in the shade.”

“All right; I’m willing,” said our hero.

The two threw themselves down at the foot of a high cliff.

As they did this a boy who had been taking it easy behind some bushes came out at the top of the cliff.

The boy was Lemuel Akers. When he saw Joe his face took on a hard, crafty look.

“So now I have you at my mercy!” he muttered to himself.

Close to the edge of the cliff rested a big rock. It lay in such a position that if rolled over the edge it would land directly upon our hero’s head.

Lemuel sized up the rock, and then, stealing up to it, shoved hard against it with his hands and his shoulder.

There was a scraping of loose pebbles, and then over the edge of the cliff rolled the rock, crashing down in a direct line for Joe’s head!

Had the big rock fallen as expected our hero would have been crushed to death.

But a single thing saved our hero. The falling of several loose pebbles caused him to look up just before the rock came down.

“Jump back!” he yelled to Carl.

And then he made one swift leap to the right.

Boom! Down came the rock, burying itself several inches in the sand. It had escaped Joe’s head by a narrow six inches.

The sand flew all over both boys.

Carl grew pale as death and was unable to say a word.

“By Jove, but that was a narrow escape,” murmured our hero as soon as he recovered from his shock.

When Akers realized how his plan had miscarried he fled from the spot.

“I—I wonder what made it come down?” gasped Carl at last.

“I suppose it was on the edge and we must have disturbed it when we shied those stones up at the birds,” replied Joe.

Not for a moment did he imagine that it was the work of his enemy. He was too good-hearted to think so ill of any one.

The boys were afraid the hounds would catch them, and so after leaving a bunch of white paper beside the big rock, they hurried on to finish the game of hare and hounds.

They ran along the Sand Cliffs for nearly a mile and then turned their noses homeward.

From a long distance behind came the toot of a horn carried by Sam Anderson.

“We are safe, unless we run into some pocket,” said Joe.

“We must be careful,” rejoined Carl.

Naturally light-hearted, both lads soon forgot the dire peril through which they had passed.

They ran on and on, across a patch of woods and then forded a brook, where they also stopped long enough to bathe their faces and get a drink.

“Run around that clump of bushes and across the lot and back and put the paper everywhere,” said Joe. “That will puzzle them to find the trail.”

This was done by Carl, and then on they went, almost as fresh as when they had started.

The woods passed, they emerged into a large sheep field. The flock of sheep was grazing at one end and they stopped for a minute to look at the animals.

Then on they went again, but the adventure on the Sand Cliffs had taken the sport out of Joe, and ere they reached home the hares were caught.

On the way to Lockport, Sam walked beside Joe and talked over the game.

“By the way,” said Sam. “Who do you suppose I saw sneaking along the Sand Cliffs?”

“Who?” asked our hero with much interest.

“Lemuel Akers. As soon as I saw him he darted out of sight.”

Joe did not answer to this. But he did a good bit of thinking.

CHAPTER IX.

IN AN OLD COAL MINE.

AFTER the failure of his plot at the Sand Cliffs the bully of Lockport was more sour than ever toward Joe.

“I’ll get square, see if I don’t,” he said to Jake Foley.

Foley did not know how Lemuel had tried to harm Joe at the Sand Cliffs, but he was willing to do anything his chum desired.

More especially was he willing to help Lemuel when one day our hero pitched into him for beating a little boy on the way to school. The little boy was lame, and Joe became so angry he gave Jake a most severe chastising.

“You big brute,” he said when he was done. “Next time tackle a lad of your size.”

Jake sneaked off, with his heart full of bitterness.

“I would like to fix Joe Johnson,” he said.

“So would I,” said Lemuel.

“Can’t we lead him into some sort of a trap?”

“Maybe, if we watch our chance,” returned the bully.

So they both watched Joe closely. But day after day went and still no chance came to light.

But in the meantime Lemuel fell in with Phil Henderson, the tramp who had received such a knock-down on the road from Joe, when he and his cronies had wanted to rob the boy.

Phil Henderson was also waiting for a chance to “fix” Joe, and he readily agreed to help Lemuel and Jake in any plan they projected.

One day Jake came to the others with a wicked smile on his face.

“Now we can fix him,” he said.

“How?” demanded Lemuel.

“Joe has made a bet that he is not afraid to walk through the old coal mine at midnight. Sam Anderson dared him to do it, and he is going to walk through the mine to-morrow night.”

“And will he be alone?” asked Phil Henderson eagerly.

“Of course. He is to take a pack of marked cards, and drop them here and there as he walks along, so the boys can see the next morning if he really went into all the dark holes and corners.”

“Good!” muttered Lemuel.

“We’ll fix things,” said Henderson.

Then he talked on for several minutes in a whisper.

“Is it a go?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied both boys.

“Then that is settled. If Joe Johnson visits the old mine to-morrow night he will never come out as he went in.”

What Jake Foley had said about our hero was true.

In a joke Sam Anderson had proposed the midnight visit.

The deserted coal mine was a very lonely place. Some of the simple country folks thought it was haunted by the ghost of a man who had been killed there once by a premature blast, and few in the district cared to go near the place at night.

But Joe knew no such thing as fear.

“I’ll bet you a first-class pocket-knife you don’t dare go,” said Sam.

And then several other boys offered to bet.

“All right, I take you all up,” declared Joe.

The boys would not at first believe him.

It was our hero who suggested the marked cards for distribution, and the boys adopted the suggestion.

The next day passed quickly.

Our hero told his folks about what he was going to do. They merely laughed, but in secret they were proud to think he was not one to be easily frightened.

After supper Joe went over to Sam’s house.

Soon Larry came along, and at eleven o’clock quite a crowd of boys were assembled.

The start was to be made from the blacksmith shop, and promptly at half-past eleven Joe took the cards Sam had prepared.

“I’m off now, boys,” he said. “I don’t expect to get back before one or half-past. Good night to you.”

At a swinging gait he set off for the old mine, half a mile distant.

Never once did he dream of the peril which there awaited him.

There would be no moon that night, and our hero had only the stars to guide him on his lonely way to the deserted quarries.

“It won’t be a very pleasant walk,” he thought. “But the boys dared me, and I won’t take a dare from anybody.”

Joe walked on briskly, and to keep his spirits up began to whistle a merry tune.

A quarter of an hour brought him to the entrance of the largest of the mine openings.

There was more than one pitfall here, but Joe knew the way and went on without hesitation.

He was not in the least afraid of ghosts, and had one appeared it is more than likely it would have received an unusually warm reception.

Presently he passed a deserted cabin, which had once been occupied by the coal-mine watchman.

He had been cautioned to leave a card at the cabin, and so threw one through a broken window.

Was it imagination, or did he hear a low chuckle from the inside?

Instead of going on our hero halted.

The average boy would have taken to his heels, but Joe was made of different stuff.

No, there was no mistake. The chuckle sounded a second time, and going up to the door Joe kicked it open.

“You fellows in there, come out,” he cried. “I heard you, and you can’t play any trick on me.”

A deathlike silence followed.

“If I had a match I would light up and hunt you out,” went on Joe, “but I can do nothing in the dark. So, either come out or stay there. I am not a bit scared.”

Still the silence continued. Then our hero threw another card inside and went on.

He thought some of his friends must be in the cabin, but he was woefully mistaken.

Hardly had he left the tumble-down building when three figures stole forth as silently as so many shadows.

It is needless to say the trio were Akers, Jake Foley and Henderson.

They followed Joe several hundred feet.

Presently our hero reached the edge of a deep hole, from which tons and tons of coal had been taken.

It was part of his wager to go down to the bottom of the hole. To prove he had been there he must place a card on a flat rock and put another rock on top of it. The rock on top would show the card had not merely been thrown into the hole.

A series of huge steps led downward. Joe had just reached the first of the steps when the three behind him rushed up.

“Now, all together!” cried Henderson, in a thick disguised voice.

The three leaped on Joe and gave him a violent shove.

Our hero tried in vain to save himself. He dropped down and clutched at the rocks.

Then he rolled over and went down the stony steps, bump, bump, bump, to the bottom.

He lay unconscious, the blood pouring from a dozen wounds.

Evidently his assailants had done their work well.

Henderson lit a lantern and cast the rays downward.

“He’s done for,” he whispered. “Come and get him out of sight.”

“Le—let us run!” stammered Jake Foley, who was as pale as death itself.

“No, do as Henderson says,” put in Lemuel Akers.

He was almost as cool as the older villain.

Thus addressed, Foley followed the pair down the steps, keeping well in the rear.

“There is a sort of cave but a short distance away,” said Henderson. “I have bunked in it more than once. Let us put him in that.”

But Jake Foley could not be induced to touch the body.

So Akers and Henderson took up the heavy burden and stumbled with it to the cave which the older rascal had mentioned.

Then the body was placed on the rocks, and by the light of the lantern Henderson went through our hero’s pockets.

He found but little, and was greatly displeased over his ill luck.

“Do hurry!” cried Foley, at least a dozen times. He would have given all he was worth to be safe at home.

“You’re a softy!” cried Henderson.

“Yes, Jake, do have a little nerve!” put in Lemuel.

Scarcely had he spoken when an unearthly sound echoed through the air.

The bully’s hair stood on ends, and Jake Foley ran a dozen steps before Henderson could stop him.

“A ghost!”

“Let us get out!”

“A ghost nothing,” growled Henderson. “It’s only a tramp cat. There are several of them around the old coal mine. It’s their meowing makes folks believe there are ghosts here.”

“I won’t stay any longer,” insisted Jake Foley. He was ready to drop from fear.

The trio took up their lantern and walked to the entrance of the cave.

A number of large rocks were handy, and soon the opening to the cave was tightly closed.

They did their work well, and removed all traces as far as lay in their power.

Lemuel had secured the cards Joe had left, and now he quitted the mine by a back way, dropping them as he went.

This would put any who came to hunt for poor Joe off the track.

An hour later the trio separated, Foley and Akers going home and Henderson making his way to a crossroads tavern a couple of miles away.

“We are rid of Joe Johnson,” said the bully to himself. “I said I would get square with him, and I kept my word.”

Yet it must be confessed that Lemuel did not feel as happy as he thought he would be.

All night long he tossed on his bed, and in imagination saw Joe’s cold white face turned up to his own.

CHAPTER X.

THE MISSING BOY.

ONLY a few of the boys hung around after Joe started for the old coal mine. They did not dare to remain out too long, and so went home.

Sam and Larry were the last to leave, and then it was with the understanding that they were to meet at our hero’s house before five o’clock in the morning.

Five o’clock found them on hand. A few minutes later Carl Lathrop came up.

It was then the lads received the astonishing bit of information that Joe had not yet come home.

His folks were much worried about him, and all wondered where he was.

Half an hour passed, and then Sam, Larry and Carl struck out to hunt their chum up.

It took them about the same time to reach the mine as it had taken our hero.

“There is a marked card,” said Sam, pointing to the card at the entrance, “That shows he entered.”

“I knew something would happen,” said Larry. “The ghosts——”

“Nonsense!” cried Carl. “It’s more likely he slipped and fell. It was foolish anyway to come in such darkness.”

The boys walked on and found several other cards, including those left in the deserted cabin.

When they came to the pit and the stone steps leading to it they went down with great care.

“No card here,” said Larry. “I guess he found the pit too much for him.”

“Hullo! Look here!” suddenly ejaculated Carl.

He pointed to a number of bright red stains on a flat rock at their feet.

“What is it?”

“Blood, boys!”

They all gathered around and surveyed the spots with sober faces.

What did it mean?

No solution of the mystery offered itself.

They walked past the rocks which concealed the entrance to the cave several times, but never dreamed of what was behind them.

At last they left the pit and walked on.

Soon they came upon the cards Lemuel had so cunningly dropped.

“He came this way and left the mine,” cried Sam.

When the lads saw the cards strung out clear to the fields beyond they felt much relieved.

“That settles it,” said Sam. “He certainly left the mine and didn’t tumble down those awful steps.”

“But where did he go?” asked Carl.

Ah, that was another question. In vain they sought for a solution.

Later on several other boys joined in the search, and then came a number of men.

As a matter of fact, the entire district was alarmed.

Not to appear in any way guilty, Lemuel joined in the search, making sure, however, to keep away from the pit in the quarry.

Jake Foley was too sick to do anything. Miserable beyond description, he remained around home, out of sight of every one.

And in the meanwhile what of poor Joe? Had that cruel shove into the pit really killed him?

Not quite. It was true he was fearfully bruised, and that when he finally struck the bottom all became a terrible blank.

How long he remained unconscious he could never afterward tell.

When he came to all was pitch dark around him.

His head ached as it never had before, and with his mind in a whirl he climbed out of the cave into which he had been placed and started for home.

But he could not go far, and soon sank beneath a clump of bushes and became unconscious once more.

At last, after many hours had passed, as we know, he went on again, more dead than alive.

He was almost home when he ran plump into Sam and Larry. The boys gave a shout and clasped him warmly by the hand.

“My, but I’m glad you are safe!” cried Sam, and Larry uttered words to the same effect.

Of course, the lads were anxious to hear Joe’s story, but he felt too tired to tell it just then. They walked home with him, and listened to all he had to say after he had had some hot coffee to drink and some dinner.

“Those rascals meant to kill me, I think,” said Joe, when his story was finished. “I only escaped by a miracle.”

“Who were they?”

“I’ll never tell. There seemed to be a man and two boys, but I am not sure.”

“You didn’t see their faces?”

“No, it was too dark for that.”

“Did they rob you?”

Our hero had not thought of that. He felt in his pockets.

“Yes.”

This put a new phase on the case, to the others’ way of thinking.

All hands talked it over and came to the conclusion that Joe had been followed by three villainous tramps. No doubt the tramps had thought him well to do, and imagined they would make a rich haul by robbing him.

A search was organized by the people of the villages around, and that night six tramps were brought in. But they all proved their innocence and were let go the next day on promise to quit the neighborhood immediately.

When Lemuel and Jake heard Joe was safe they could scarcely believe their ears. For a whole day they were in mortal terror for fear that our hero would mention them as two of the gang who had assaulted him.

It was nearly a week before Joe felt like himself again. He went to school, but did not help much at home.

When he again met Jake Foley that boy did not dare to look him in the face. Joe did not say anything, but went to thinking. Did Jake know anything of the assault? Time would tell.

With Lemuel it was different. He was too brazen-faced and stony-hearted to be ashamed at anything. He passed our hero staringly, and even spread a report that Joe had got up the tale of the assault just to make folks talk about him.

This story our hero did not like, and one day he cornered the bully in the schoolyard and the two came to blows in double-quick order, and Lemuel went home with two black eyes and a nose that was swollen to twice its natural size.

This put the bully in a fearful temper.

“I’ll do him yet, see if I don’t,” he growled to Jake Foley.

“Better let him alone,” said Jake, who was not yet over his scare. “You can’t do anything with him, I’m convinced of that.”

“Oh, you always were chicken-hearted,” retorted Lemuel, and then and there he and Jake Foley fell out and were friends no more.

It was a good thing for Jake, for he was not naturally a bad lad, and he at once became better in a hundred ways until a number of the schoolboys got to quite like him. He never tried to harm Joe again.

CHAPTER XI.

A STIRRING FOOT RACE.

ABOUT a week after the events narrated in the previous chapter Joe was on his way from Lockport to a little village several miles up the river.

Instead of riding on his bicycle he was on foot, his machine being slightly in need of repairs which could not be made until several days later.

Joe had proceeded but a short distance when he was joined by Billy Smith, a school chum, and a cousin to Dick Burns.

“Where bound, Joe?” called out Billy.

“To Haverley’s.”

“I’m going there myself.”

“All right; come along.”

“Where’s your wheel?” asked Billy as he came up.

“I’ve got to fix it a bit,” Joe told him. “I don’t mind walking for a change,” he added.

“I don’t think I would care much for wheeling,” said Billy. “I prefer baseball.”

“I know that,” laughed Joe. “You would rather play ball than eat, wouldn’t you?”

“Almost. But, by the way, Joe, are you going to play on our nine this season?”

“I will if you wish me to, Billy.”

“Certainly we want you. Charley Osborne spoke of it only yesterday. I know you can catch beautifully if you will only try.”

Joe smiled at this. He had caught on the team during the previous summer and acquitted himself quite creditably.

“Yes, we’ve been reorganizing the Rushers,” said Billy. “Charley Osborne is to be pitcher and we want you to catch.”

“And what of yourself?”

“Oh, I’ll take my old position at first base.”

“I suppose I can catch,” remarked Joe reflectively. “But I don’t know about running. I’m all out of practice, I’ve wheeled so much lately.”

“Let’s try a race, just for fun,” cried Billy Smith. “That will be a good test.”

“All right. I’ll race you to old Crosby’s well.”

“Done, Joe. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then toe this mark. One, two, three, go!”

And away the two boys went at top speed down the road.

The well toward which they set their pace was situated at the back end of a lot which faced the highway.

The distance to it and back again was over five hundred feet.

The well was in something of a hollow, and down the hill tore the two boys at a breakneck speed.

They kept side by side for more than half the distance to the well.

But then Joe forged ahead, and, try his best, Billy Smith could not catch up.

“It’s no use, you’ve won,” he said, and dropped into a walk.

“Never mind, Billy, you’ll have a chance to tie me going back,” said Joe encouragingly.

Of course the boys intended to stop at the well for a drink. The opening had no buckets to it, and the boys had to dip down with an old tin can to get water.

But oh! how cool and refreshing it was! And as they were so hot it actually tasted sweet to them.

Soon the two boys had their fill of water, and they prepared to return to the road when a strange rattle sounded in the bushes back of the well.

“Listen! What is that?” exclaimed Billy Smith.

“It sounded like a rattlesnake!” cried Joe. “Let us go and see if it is a snake,” he added fearlessly.

Arming themselves with sticks and stones, the two lads circled about the bushes in question.

Suddenly Billy Smith gave a loud laugh.

“Here is your rattler!” he exclaimed. “Nothing but a drunken tramp, sleeping off the effects of the bad whisky he’s been drinking.”

Joe looked troubled.

“I don’t see how he could make that noise,” he returned slowly. “He is snoring, but that is all. Perhaps—oh! Billy, look!”

Joe stopped short and pointed to a low tree that overhung the spot where the sleeping tramp lay.

There, wound around one of the lower branches, was a big rattlesnake. His eyes were as bright as diamonds and he was on the point of dropping down and striking at the unconscious man with his deadly fangs!

It would be useless to deny that the two boys were much startled by what they saw. They realized that the drunken tramp was in mortal danger of his life. Should the rattlesnake really strike him it would be doubtful if he could ever come to his senses.

“Oh! what shall we do?” gasped Billy Smith as he fell back a couple of paces.

There was no time to answer. A moment of hesitation and it might be too late to act.

In his hand Joe carried a large and sharp-sided stone. Taking careful aim with this, he let drive at the snake’s head.

His aim was true. The stone struck the reptile directly in one eye, inflicting a severe wound.

At once they heard an angry rattle, and the reptile wound and unwound itself about the tree with lighting-like rapidity. It was suffering intense pain and was now more furious than ever.

As it curved about, Joe rushed forward and pulled the tramp several yards off in the direction of the well.

“Wake up! Snakes!” he yelled.

“Lemme—hic—alone,” muttered the tramp. “I ain’t got no—hic—snakes. Only overcome by the—hic—sunshine.”

“There are real snakes here! Look out!” put in Billy Smith.

At this the tramp staggered to his feet. He saw the writhing rattler, and, letting out one long scream of deadly terror, he fled toward the road, his ragged coat-tails streaming out behind him.

During this time Joe had again advanced upon the snake. With his stick he struck half a dozen blows. Billy Smith jumped in to help him.

The rattlesnake fought desperately, but with one eye gone he was at a disadvantage, and inside of five minutes Billy gave him a final whack that stretched him out lifeless.

“By jinks! but that was a stirring fight,” cried Billy when all was over.

“I don’t want another such in a hurry,” replied Joe, and he shuddered as he viewed the shining reptile.

“You saved that tramp’s life.”

They measured the snake and found it was nearly five feet long and had nine rattles.

“If he wasn’t so bruised I would take him home and have him stuffed,” said Joe.

“Never mind; let us take him along anyway,” said Billy. “We can show him to the other boys. Maybe they won’t believe such a snake story unless they see the snake.”

While they were tying the snake to a long stick old Farmer Crosby came along from another field.

“By gum! Got a rattler, hev yeou!” he said, as he stared at their victim. “Ye must hev had a lively fight, boys.”

“We did have.”

“I seed thet rattler last week, over in the cornfield. But I didn’t tackle him, I can tell ye thet!”

Farmer Crosby was glad the snake was dead. He told the boys they could come to the farm and hunt snakes any time they pleased.

“No, thanks; we are not in that business,” laughed Billy.

The fight with the snake had driven all thoughts of the footrace out of the two boys’ heads. They walked back to the road slowly, carrying the dead snake between them.

The first person they met was Charley Osborne, the young baseball player Billy had mentioned.

Charley was greatly surprised.

“Took him in the eye, eh,” he said. “Joe, if you can throw so straight as that you had better take my place on the nine as pitcher.”

“No, I’ll stay behind the bat and put men out when they try to steal bases,” laughed our hero.

The snake was showed to all the boys, and then Billy took it home.

Later on it was stuffed and hung up in the club-room the Rushers had hired and furnished.

CHAPTER XII.

JOE AND THE OLD APPLEWOMAN.

THAT evening Charley Osborne and Billy Smith called a special meeting of the baseball club, at which Joe was present.

“The Stars want to play us next Saturday,” Charley said, as he held up a communication. “Shall we accept or put off the match?”

“Let us accept,” said Billy. “We can practice every afternoon and get into good shape, to my way of thinking.”

The matter was talked over and finally the other boys decided to follow this advice.

A communication accepting the challenge was written by Charley and sent to the Stars on the following Monday.

Then the Rushers settled down to steady, hard practice with Joe as their catcher.

A few evenings later Joe spent two hours at Billy Smith’s house helping his friend fix up and paint a rowboat to be used on the lake.

When he left Billy’s house he found the sky overcast. In the west the thunder rumbled, telling that a storm was not far off.

Not wishing to be caught out without an umbrella, our hero started for his home on a swift walk.

He had gone about two blocks when, on turning a street corner, a sight met his gaze that caused his blood to boil.

An old woman known as Apple Mary, who sold fruit and candy throughout the district, was in the hands of two cowardly footpads, who were trying to rob her of her hard-earned savings.

One of the footpads was behind the old woman, and had his hands over her mouth so she could not scream. The other footpad was in front, trying to find the pocket in Apple Mary’s dress.

“Got it, Henderson?” asked the footpad in the rear.

“No, hang the luck, I can’t find the pocket!” growled his companion.

“Den cut der dress!”

To follow this advice the other footpad brought out a big pocket-knife.

He was in the act of cutting the garment mentioned when Joe came up on a run.

“Leave that old lady alone!” he cried indignantly.

“Mind yer own business!” howled both footpads.

Scarcely had they spoken when Joe’s arm shot out.

The footpad who was holding Apple Mary received a blow in the neck that almost bowled him over.

Seeing this the other footpad leaped toward our hero, but the lad was not to be caught. He dodged off and began to cry for the police.

“Shut up!” howled one of the footpads.

In the meanwhile Apple Mary, finding herself free, pulled something from under her skirt. It was an old Irish hawthorn stick.

“Bad cess to ye, ye villains!” she cried, and then she went at one of the footpads, tooth and nail.

She was thoroughly aroused, and before the rascal could retreat she gave him a whack over the head that almost paralyzed him.

“Good for you, Mary!” shouted Joe. “He deserves it.”

But now the footpads thought it time to clear out, and both ran up the street, and a moment later vanished in the darkness.

By the time the constable who did duty as a policeman at night in Lockport arrived, it was too late to attempt to hunt them up, although the officer made a great show of doing so.

“I owe ye wan for that, Joe Johnson,” said Apple Mary. “’Tis yerself that has a stout heart under yer coat, so ye have!”

And she gave his hand a warm shake.

“Did they know you had money with you?” asked the youth.

“Most likely, the villains! Oi got a hundred dollars from the bank to-day, to pay on me little home. Oi have it in a bag here,” and Apple Mary tapped her skirt.

“Maybe I had better see you safe home then,” said Joe, and he accompanied the old Irish woman to the humble cottage she occupied on one of the side streets of the town.

Before he left her she thanked him again.

“You’ll be a great man some day,” she said. “You will have thousands of friends, mark my wurrud.”

Joe walked home in a thoughtful mood.

“I wonder if Apple Mary is right,” he asked himself. “Will I have thousands of friends? I surely hope so.”

Two days passed and the Rushers kept steady at work on the diamond.

Charley Osborne was getting his new curve down fine, and Joe managed to catch nearly everything that came over the plate untouched.

“I don’t know what I would do without Joe behind the plate,” Charley said more than once. “He is so reliable that he gives me great confidence.”

On Friday Sam Anderson, who was also on the nine, came to the meeting place looking very much excited.

“Boys, I have a bit of news,” he said.

“All right, Sam; let us have it.”

“I’ve got word in a roundabout way from the Stars.”

“What of them?”

“They intend to beat us.”

“Chestnuts!”

“They can’t do it.”

“Hear me out, boys. They intend to beat us. If they can’t do it by fair means, they intend to do it by foul.”

Instantly every one of the Rushers was more than interested. They crowded about Sam waiting for him to explain.

But the explanation was not forthcoming.

“I can’t tell you how it is to be done,” said Sam. “All I know is what my father told me. He said we must be careful and not get into any trouble with the Independence boys.”

“But what does he know?” asked Joe with much interest.

“He was over to Independence to-day, and while he was waiting at a store for a man three boys came along. He knew them to be players on the Stars, although he doesn’t know their names. He heard them talking about the game Saturday and about what they intended to do. He said they talked as if they had some trick arranged.”

At this the members of the local club grew serious.

It would not have been so bad had they known what the Stars were up to.

It was the dread of the unknown that haunted them. They talked the matter over.

“Every one must be on guard,” said Joe. “They must not be allowed to tamper with the balls or bats.”

“Nor the drinking water,” put in Larry Dare, the shortstop. “I believe the time they won they put something in the water. I never had such a headache in my life.”

“Nor I!” cried Carl Lathrop, who was one of the fielders.

“I believe the water was tampered with beyond a doubt,” said Charley Osborne.

“We’ll all keep wide awake. Don’t touch water or anything else unless you are certain it is O. K.”

That was Joe’s advice, and they resolved to follow it.

After this the boys went out to practice.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE BASEBALL GAME.

WHILE the Rushers were out on the common, an old professor from the Greenpoint college came along.

His name was Stizik, and he was a very gruff, unsociable man.

He stood and watched Charley Osborne pitch for a few minutes.

Then he heard Billy mention the out and the in curves, and smiled sarcastically to himself.

“No such things as out and in and up curves,” he sniffed. “Utter impossibility—contrary to all the laws of gravitation.”

“Charley curves the ball—or rather the ball follows a curving line,” said Joe stoutly. “I can see it.”

“Only an optical delusion,” snorted Stizik. “Couldn’t possibly curve in any direction but downward.”

Joe knew that many people contended the same thing—to this day some will not believe that a so-called “curved” ball can be pitched—but he stuck to what he thought true.

An argument arose, and then the professor himself made a novel proposition.

“We will make a number of square frames and cover them with tissue paper. Then he can pitch one of the so styled curved balls through the line of frames. The holes through the tissue paper—we will make the paper damp—will tell if the ball curved or not.”

At once the boys took up the idea. Some long laths were procured, and soon the frames were ready.

One was set up over the home plate and four others at equal distances between that point and the pitcher’s box.

“Now, if you can pitch the ball in a curved line, I’ll make the club a present of new caps,” said Professor Stizik.

He felt certain Charley could pitch nothing but a straight ball.

“All right! Here goes!” cried Charley.

His arm went back, and through the wet paper went the baseball at a fair degree of rapidity.

“Now you’ll see how much you are mistaken!” cried Professor Stizik, as the frames were brought together.

But in less than half a minute his face wore a glum look.

Between the first and the last frames the wet paper showed that the ball had curved outwardly nearly ten inches.

“I said he could do it!” cried Joe. “I have been behind the bat too long to be mistaken.”

“You boys didn’t hold the frames straight,” growled Professor Stizik, and off he walked as fast as he could.

He never bought the boys the caps he had promised, but neither did he ever attempt to dispute with them again.

The match with the Stars was to be held on a big lot on the outskirts of Lockport. Here a grand stand capable of holding three hundred people was erected. Admission to the stand was ten cents—the money to go, one-quarter to the losing team and three-quarters to the club that won.

The Rushers were on the field bright and early. They wore neat suits they had just purchased, and made such a fine appearance that they elicited a round of applause.

When the Stars appeared they brought with them over half a hundred boys from Independence, many of them tough-looking customers.

An umpire named Valley had already been decided upon.

The Stars won the toss, and sent the Rushers to the bat first.

“Now, nothing like making a good beginning,” said Joe, as Charley took up the stick.

But Charley was destined to fan the air. He could not connect with the really swift balls the Stars’ pitcher sent in, and he went out on strikes.

A cheer went up from the rooters from Independence.

“That’s the way to serve ’em, Jake!” they yelled to their pitcher.

“Don’t give ’em a single hit!”

Billy was next at the bat. He missed two balls and then went out on a fly to second base.

The third boy at the bat was Sam Anderson. He knocked a foul into the catcher’s hands, and the first half of the innings was over.

How the Independence boys did yell! They thought they had a sure victory from the start.

“Don’t give ’em any leeway, Charley,” whispered Joe to Osborne, as they walked from the bench. “We must shut them out also.”

“All right.”

The first player up was put out easily. Charley pitched one wild ball, but our hero made a leap into the air and secured it quickly. The Rushers’ friends applauded this.

The second player of the Stars knocked a weak one between first and second bases. The ball was fumbled and he got his base on a close decision.

“Hurrah for the Stars!”

“Now bring it in, Terry!”

The next man up knocked a safe hit to right field. He got first and the other runner managed to get around to third.

The next player went out on strikes.

Then came a safe hit to center. The batter got down and the man on third came home.

The Independence boys were wild with joy. They had scored the first run.

Joe walked down to Charley.

“Keep cool, old man,” he said, “the game is still young.”

This advice had its effect. Charley pitched superbly, and the Stars went down with only one run to their credit.

The second inning was short. On both sides the players went out in one, two, three order. Billy made a big hit to center, but the fly was caught and went for nothing.

In the third inning the Rushers tied the score.

Then the Lockport boys took their turn at yelling.

One to one remained on the score board until the seventh inning, when Joe called the boys together.

“We must do something this time, fellows,” he said. “O’Donnell, start her up lively.”

And O’Donnell did, making a safe two-bagger.

Several more safe hits followed. Then another Rusher sent out a red-hot liner that brought him three bases.

End of the seventh inning: Stars, one; Rushers, five.

The boys from Independence began to look as blue as indigo. The Lockport lads could hardly contain themselves.

“Now keep ’em down,” said Charley.

“Yes, you keep ’em down,” put in Carl.

In the eighth inning the Stars began to grow desperate. They did their best and brought in two runs, making the score: Stars, three; Rushers, five.

In the ninth inning Joe was the first man at the bat. Two strikes were called on him, and then he knocked a safe one over in left field. He tore down to first, over to second, up to third—and hesitated.

“Run, run, you are all right!”

It was Charley who called to him, and once more he started. But something was under his shoe, and he slipped and fell headlong.

As quick as a wink the third baseman stooped, and picking up something, put it in his pocket.

It was now useless to try to reach the home plate, and our hero went back to the base.

“You tripped me with something,” he said to the baseman sharply.

“Wot yer givin’ me?” growled the fellow.

Joe said no more, but he set to thinking. This was evidently the trick the Stars intended to play.

The other players now came up, but were put out on strikes and a foul.

The Rushers had had their innings, and their total number of runs was still five.

To beat them the Stars must make three runs in their last half of the ninth.

The Stars’ heavy batters were up.

Charley Osborne grew just a bit nervous, and, as a consequence, before they knew it two men were on bases.

Then a batter knocked a safe two-base hit, and one of the runners came home.

This made the score: Stars, four; Rushers, five

“Go it, Stars!”

“Shut ’em out, Rushers!”

The next boy went out on strikes, and the player to follow did the same.

“Now, one more out and the game is ours,” thought Joe.

But the next batter, by accident, struck a little one to second and reached first on a wild throw, while the other runner went to third.

Two out, two men on bases, and two runs to win the game; that was the way the Stars sized it up.

Then the Stars’ heaviest batter came up to the plate, and a cheer arose, for he was a great favorite.

“Knock a homer, Pete!”

“You can do it, old fellow.”

Charley Osborne was pale and his teeth were set.

He felt that to a great extent the game depended on him.

He sent in one of his outer curves.

The Stars’ crack batter hit out and missed it.

“Good for you, Charley!”

Again Charley took his position. A pause, a look at the men on bases, and once more the ball came rushing over the plate.

Crack! The batter had hit out hard. But instead of driving into the diamond, the ball went sailing up into the air over Joe’s head.

“Run for it!”

“You must get it!”

“He can’t reach it!”

Back and still further back went Joe with the speed of the wind.

The foul tip was just over the backstop board.

With a mighty spring the boy leaped up on the fence and reached out his hand.

To the Rushers it seemed as if the fate of the club hung in Joe’s hands.

Should he muff that foul, the chances were that the heavy hitter of the Stars would line out at least a two-bagger and bring in the runs to win the game.

The ball was now nearing the ground, our hero strained over still further, until it looked as if he must lose his balance and topple over on the other side of the fence.

“You’ll break your neck!”

“The ball is out of his reach.”

A pause.

“He has it!”

“Bannon is out!”

“The Rushers have won!”

It was true.

The ball just touched the tips of our hero’s fingers, but he clung to it like grim death, and thus brought the game to a conclusion.

Score—Rushers, five; Stars, four.

Maybe the Lockport lads did not yell themselves hoarse.

The Independence boys had nothing to say. They rushed for their dressing place and sneaked off as quickly as they could.

All of the Lockport boys praised Joe. They said he had saved the game beyond a doubt.

And all agreed that his was the greatest catch ever witnessed on the grounds.

CHAPTER XIV.

FUN ON THE GREEN.

AFTER the great game with the Independence Club the Lockport boys practiced harder than ever.

Joe took a particular interest in long-distance throwing. He tried his arm constantly and was soon able to throw fifteen feet further than any other member of the club.

“But you can’t throw as accurately as I can,” said Will Gibson, one of the outfielders.

“I’ll match you and see,” said our hero.

The novel contest took place one Saturday afternoon before the boys started in to play a practice game with a scrub nine.

Joe and Gibson walked down in deep center and took positions side by side.

Then Dick Burns, who was out for the first time since the accident, placed a bushel basket directly on the home plate.

Each boy was to throw a ball three times at given signals. The one who threw the most times into the basket was to be the winner.

Joe and Gibson were both provided with balls.

“Ready?” shouted Billy.

“Yes.”

There was a pause.

“Throw!”

Whiz!

Along came both of the balls, thrown at exactly the same time.

Gibson’s struck the rim of the basket and bounced inside.

Joe’s bounced a dozen feet away.

“One for Gibson!”

“That was hardly a fair trial!”

The balls were sent back to our hero and Gibson, and again they got ready.

“Throw!” shouted Billy Smith once more.

The spheres flew through the air.

Gibson’s went high up, but Joe’s cut only a graceful curve.

Plump!

Our hero’s struck the basket squarely in the center.

Gibson’s shot over the mark several feet.

“A tie!”

“The ball slipped!” growled Will Gibson.

Now came the decisive throw. Both boys handled the balls carefully, and looked well to the spots in which they were standing. The crowd held its breath.

“Throw!” shouted Billy for the third and last time.

Again the two balls came along.

Plump!

Joe’s hit the center of the basket again.

Gibson’s struck the rim, knocking the basket over.

“Joe Johnson has won!”

“My! what clever throwing!”

Will Gibson was put out over his failure to win.

“I’ll tell you what I can do,” he said after the practice game was over. “I can throw higher than you.”

“Perhaps you can, Will,” replied Joe. “There is no advantage in that, though—I mean in ball playing.”

“Never mind, I’ll bet I can do it.”

“I’ll bet you can’t!” cried Charley. “Joe can throw over the church steeple.”

“So can I, and I’ll put the ball over the weather vane in the bargain.”

“You can’t do it!”

“I can!”

One word brought on another, and finally our hero was persuaded to throw over the church steeple against Gibson.

Fifteen or twenty fellows went along to see the contest.

The church was on the outskirts, and had a steeple of wood and iron. In the steeple were several windows, and on the top was a gilded weather vane, reaching six or eight feet into the air.

Instead of throwing at the same time, the boys drew lots as to who should try first. Gibson won, and chose to throw last.

A standing spot was chosen, and carefully measuring the distance, Joe let fly the ball.

Up and up it went into the air, for our hero had thrown it with incredible power.

It continued to go up until the top of the steeple was reached.

And now it was on a level with the weather vane.

Up over that fully a yard it curved, and then it began to fall on the other side of the church.

The crowd set up a cheer, and Will Gibson’s face fell. He could not hope to do better than that, if as well.

“Never mind, Will, tie him!” shouted his friends

The ball was brought back and Gibson took it.

He leaned far back and hurled the sphere with all the force at his command. Up it sailed into the air.

Crash! Jingle! jingle! jingle!

Instead of going over the steeple the ball had struck one of the topmost windows, shattering the center of the frame and four panes of colored glass!

The entire crowd was astonished at the unexpected turn affairs had taken.

Will Gibson turned a sickly green, and his face took on a look of alarm.

“Gosh! I didn’t mean to do that!” he cried. “What will old Mallory say to that?”

Mallory was the sexton of the church.

“Never mind, it was an accident, and we’ll have to chip in and pay for the damage done,” said Joe.

He had hardly spoken when Mallory came rushing out of the edifice, his face full of rage. He was a disagreeable man, and all wondered how it was that he kept his present position.

“Who smashed those windows?” he roared.

He had been up in the belfry fixing the bell rope. The crash had almost scared him out of his wits, he thinking the whole steeple was about to fall.

No one answered him.

“I say, who smashed those windows?” he went on. “Answer me, or I’ll have the whole crowd arrested.”

“It was an accident, Mr. Mallory—” began Joe.

“Accident! Not much! Did you do it?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“You must find out for yourself.”

“Ha! don’t sass me!”

Joe shrugged his shoulders and attempted to move away. Mallory caught him by the shoulder.

“Tell me who did this.”

“I will not. Let me go.”

“If you don’t answer I’ll have you locked up.”

Joe simply looked at the enraged man. Then before more could be said, some small boy in the rear piped in.

“Please, sir, it was Will Gibson who busted the window.”

“Get out of here, Nicky Dill!” shouted half a dozen of the other lads, and, scared out of his wits, the tell-tale took to his heels.

“Will Gibson, eh?” growled Mallory. “Come here!”

He strode over to Will Gibson and grabbed him by the collar.

“I’ll pay for the window, Mr. Mallory.”

“You’ll go to jail!”

“Why should he if he is willing to pay?” asked Carl. “It was an accident.”

“I don’t care, he’ll go to jail!” howled Mallory stubbornly.

“I won’t go to jail!” cried Will Gibson.

He was a nice fellow, and the idea of being locked up filled him with terror.

“You will!”

Scarcely had the sexton spoken when Will gave a dexterous twist and broke away from the angry man. He started to run, and Mallory made after him.

Back of the church was an extensive churchyard. Into this shady and quiet spot sped Gibson, with Mallory at his heels. The boys all joined in the chase.

“It’s a shame!”

“Let him go! We’ll pay for the window!”

“I won’t!” bellowed Mallory. It made him still more angry to have Will Gibson slip from his clutches.

Along one of the main paths sped Will. He was a good runner, and speedily outdistanced the sexton.

Presently Will reached a spot overhung with evergreens. He dove beneath the trees and turned across a patch of thick grass.

When Mallory reached the evergreens the boy was nowhere in sight.

In vain the sexton looked around for him. Will had completely disappeared.

CHAPTER XV.

AN ADVENTURE IN A CEMETERY.

THE other boys were relieved to think Gibson had so cleverly outwitted the sexton.

They hung around until Mallory grew angry and drove them all out of the grounds.

The sexton wanted to call on Will’s folks, but he had too much work on hand to take the necessary time that day.

The boys dispersed and went home, thinking Will had already reached his dwelling place.

Joe left also, and after supper he and Billy Smith walked around to Will’s home to learn what Gibson might have to say.

A surprise awaited them. Will had not yet come home, and his folks were much worried about him.

“He is afraid of being locked up,” said Billy.

And he told Mr. Gibson of what had taken place.

“He will not be locked up,” said Will’s father. “I will pay the damages. If you see him, tell him to come home at once, as his mother is worried.”

At nine o’clock Will had not yet turned up.

“See here,” said Joe to Billy. “Maybe something has happened to him.”

“What could happen?”

“Maybe he fell into a hole dug for a grave, or something like that.”

“I didn’t see any new holes,” said Billy.

“It’s queer, but I feel just as if we ought to go to the cemetery, and take a look around. Perhaps he was tackled as I was at the old coal mine.”

Billy shivered. He did not much like the idea, but finally Joe persuaded him to go along.

Although it was summer time, it was dark when the pair reached the cemetery gates. They found the big iron barriers closed.

“We’ll have to climb over,” said our hero. “Here goes!”

And over the iron fence he went, and Billy Smith followed.

Under the evergreens it was still darker, and Billy came to a halt.

“Supposing a ghost—” he began.

“Ghosts! nonsense! Don’t be foolish, Billy. There is no such thing as a ghost.”

Keeping side by side the two boys stole quickly along the path Will had taken while running from Mallory.

Soon the evergreens were passed, and they halted in a sort of hollow. To one side was a great stone vault, partly covered with dirt and sods. The vault had a heavy iron door, which was tightly closed.

“My gracious! what was that!” gasped Billy Smith.

A low, muffled sound had reached his ears.

“I don’t know. Listen!”

Again the sound echoed around them, sending a chill down their backbones.

“Sounds like somebody in a coffin trying to get out!” gasped Billy.

“You couldn’t hear a person in a coffin.”

Again they listened. Then Joe walked over to the door of the vault and knocked upon it. Immediately an answering knock came back.

“I’ll bet Will Gibson is locked in the vault!”

“Oh, Joe!” cried Billy.

He also sprang to the door.

“Is that you, Will?”

“Yes! yes! let me out!”

Poor Will Gibson was a prisoner in the vault. He had run in there to hide, closing the door behind him. The latch above the lock had sprung into place, and after Mallory and the others had gone away he had been unable to release himself.

Joe quickly raised the latch and pulled the door open.

Out of the darkness staggered Will. The air in the vault, which was empty, had nearly suffocated him, and he could scarcely stand.

Joe and Billy led him to a stone step, and there the three boys sat down to rest.

“Oh, how thankful I am that you came for me,” said Will. “I was going crazy in there!”

“It’s a terrible place to be locked in,” remarked Billy.

It was after eleven o’clock when the boys started to go home.

They had just passed the evergreen trees when Joe suddenly clutched both companions by the arm.

“Hist! look there!” he whispered.

And he nodded to their left, where three men were stealing along, one with a half-closed lantern, and the others with picks and shovels.

“What can they be up to?” asked Billy, after a breathless pause.

“They are going to dig up a dead body.”

“Body snatchers?” queried Will.

“Exactly.”

“Oh, what a shame!”

“They ought to be locked up!”

“They shan’t get any body to-night,” said Joe with sudden determination.

For a long while dead bodies had been taken from that cemetery. The authorities had tried in vain to catch the offenders. They were supposed to sell the bodies to some of the local medical colleges, but no clew to work upon could be obtained.

Night after night a watch had been set, but every time the body snatchers were too shrewd for the police.

No body had been taken now for over a month, and the authorities had relaxed their vigilance.

“What will you do?” asked Billy.

“Let one of us go for the police while the others watch these chaps.”

This was agreed on. But who should go?

Will was selected, and he promised to bring help with all possible speed.

As soon as he was gone, our hero and Billy Smith stole after the body snatchers.

They soon tracked them to a new portion of the cemetery.

Here, in a corner, a woman had been buried that very day.

Setting down the lantern behind a bush the three men took their picks and shovels and went to work with a will.

They wanted to get the body out, fill up the grave again, and be off ere midnight.

Three hands at one grave made quick work of the semi-loose dirt, and it was not long ere the box containing the coffin was reached.

“Will ought to be coming back soon,” murmured Billy.

“Go toward the gate and see if you can learn anything about him,” replied Joe. “I’ll stay on guard alone.”

And Billy went off as silently as a shadow.

With several ropes the body snatchers raised the box to the surface. Then with his shovel one of the gang started to pry off the lid of the box.

At that moment Joe heard a soft but well-known whistle coming from Will Gibson.

He replied, and so did Billy.

The grave despoilers started back.

“What’s that, Bill?” asked one.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“It was a night bird,” said the third man. “Hurry up, Candors. We want to get that coffin to the wagon before twelve o’clock.”

Then Joe felt his arm touched. There was Will accompanied by two of the Lockport constables. Billy came behind the trio.

“Just in time!” whispered Joe.

“Will you boys help us?” asked the leading officer.

“Certainly,” said our hero.

“Of course,” added Billy and Will.

“Then let us surround these chaps. There are some sticks, better arm yourselves.”

A moment later the officers strode forward.

“Surrender! Hands up, all of you!”

The body snatchers were taken completely by surprise.

They started to run, but it was useless.

The leader was shot in the leg by one of the constables, and stumbled headlong.

In five minutes more every one of the body snatchers was handcuffed and on his way to jail.

The cemetery authorities were notified, and they of course at once had the coffin box put back into place.

The boys got warm praise for what they had done, and no more was said about the broken windows in the church steeple.

Later on the body snatchers, who proved to hail from a distant city, were all tried and sentenced to long terms in prison.

CHAPTER XVI.

AN ACCIDENT ON THE RAILROAD.

AFTER the affair in the cemetery matters drifted along somewhat quietly for several days.

Then Joe was called upon by his father to go on a trip to Cleveland to pay some money which was due to an insurance company.

He was to go on the journey by train, and started off early in the day.

In the cars he met Charley Osborne, and the two sat down together.

“It’s awfully foggy,” said Charley. “By gracious! I shouldn’t think the engineer could see two yards ahead of him.”

“It’s dangerous traveling in this weather,” replied Joe. “I wish it was clearer.”

“So do I—we could look out of the window,” replied Charley.

On rushed the train through the fog. The engineer was behind time, and was doing his best to make up his schedule.

“We’re moving along, eh?” cried Joe as the car gave an extra jerk around a curve. “We must be going nearly a mile a minute.”

“That’s so.”

A half-hour passed. Several stops were made, but few got off or on. The cars were about half filled.

“Folks don’t like to travel in this kind of weather,” remarked Charley.

“Well, I rather wish we had remained home, too,” was Joe’s answer. “I would rather take this trip when the sun is shining.”

“Oh, so would I. But who would have thought it was going to get so foggy when we left?”

Another half-hour went by. Charley began to get sleepy, and, leaning back his head, closed his eyes.

Our hero sat idly turning the pages of a newspaper.

Suddenly the train was checked in its rapid onward course.

Charley and Joe were thrown forward out of their seat on to the back of the seat in front of them.

Then came a crash in front and the jingle of glass.

The rear end of the car ahead had come up and struck out the front end of the car they were in!

A succession of bumps followed, a quiver, and all became still so far as the cars were concerned.

The train had run into the rear end of another train ahead, and the crash was followed by a hundred cries on every side.

“Help me out!”

“My leg is broken!”

“Take this seat off my chest!”

“Get an ax and chop me loose!”

The cries came principally from the cars ahead.

“Are you hurt, Charley?” asked our hero as soon as he could make himself heard.

“No; are you?”

“Not a bit.”

“Let us get out by the back way.”

“All right.”

They at once started to leave the car.

Charley got out first.

Joe lingered behind to help an old man who was lame.

The old fellow could scarcely move, and our hero had quite a task getting him to a place of safety.

Fortunately no one had been seriously hurt in the car they had occupied.

The principal damage sustained was in the car ahead, next to the engine, and the rear car of the train ahead.

The engine was almost a total wreck, and both the fireman and engineer were badly hurt.

“My! but this is awful!” murmured Joe as he gazed on the scene.

“Help wanted here!” shouted the conductor, as he rushed forward. “We must get out the helpless before the cars take fire!”

“I’m at your service!” cried Joe promptly.

“So am I,” added Charley, and a dozen others also volunteered.

It was not long before those on the rear train were all gotten out, and then the crowd ran forward.

The rear car of the front train was almost smashed to kindling wood, and it was already burning in several places.

Those around had gotten out most of the sufferers, but could not get at those who remained.

“Save me! oh, save me!”

It was the cry of a despairing woman.

The appeal came from the end of the car nearest to the wrecked engine.

The woman was caught under several seats, and the fire was but a few feet away. Soon it would reach her and she would be burned where she lay.

“I’m going in for her!” cried Joe bravely.

“No! no! I’ll go in!” exclaimed the conductor of the train.

He leaped into the battered car and began to crawl over the wreckage.

Soon he was directly over the woman.

The steam and smoke enveloped him like a thick cloud.

With herculean efforts he hurled the broken car seats right and left.

He raised them all excepting the last, which he could not budge.

“An ax!” he yelled. “Bring me an ax!”

Joe heard this cry and got the instrument and threw it toward him.

Crack! Whack! Bang!

The ax flew right and left.

The under car seat was smashed in a jiffy.

Then the conductor raised the woman in his arms.

With quick leaps he sprang through the smoke and flames.

The crowd was watching for him, and as he and his burden appeared they set up a shout.

“Good for the conductor!”

Our hero helped place the woman on a grassy bank, and here a doctor attended her and the other sufferers.

Stirring times followed, and both Joe and Charley did many deeds to their credit.

It was not until an hour later that a train backed down from Cleveland and took the dead and dying on board.

Joe and Charley boarded this train and half an hour later found them at the depot in Cleveland.

Here Joe’s business for his father was quickly transacted, and then he went off with Charley to visit the home of the latter’s uncle.

The two spent a most enjoyable time at Charley’s relative’s house, but knowing their parents might be anxious concerning them, should they hear of the railroad smash-up, they returned to Lockport much earlier than had been their original intention.

The news of the accident had preceded them, and Joe found his folks at the depot awaiting him.

“I’m so glad you are safe, Joe!” cried his mother, and folded him to her breast.

This was Joe’s first and last accident on a railroad, but many thrilling adventures on the wheel were still in store for him.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE GOLD PIN.

AS WE know, Dick Burns had been quite seriously injured on the road and during the time that Joe was playing ball had been unable to go out on his wheel.

But the lad was now much better and, Joe’s bicycle being once more in good condition, the pair one day went out for a ride of several miles around Lockport.

On their way back they passed along the road where Joe had had the dispute with Lemuel Akers, while both were on their wheels.

Our hero told Dick of it and showed his chum the exact spot where Akers had been knocked down.

“It served him right,” declared Dick. “If he don’t look out I’ll get into his wool.”

“Oh, I’m able to take my own part,” laughed Joe.

“I don’t mean on your account, but on Carrie’s. He bothers her with his attentions, and she despises him.”

While Dick was speaking he was gazing at something bright, lying but a few feet away. Suddenly he made a dash forward and secured it.

It was a gold pin shaped in the form of a new moon, with a pearl at the lower end.

“Look, Joe!” he cried.

“A gold pin, I declare! Dick, you are in luck.”

“So I am.”

The two boys examined the pin, and cleaned it off, and then Dick placed it on the lapel of his coat.

“It’s worth a couple of dollars, at least,” said Joe.

“I’ll make Carrie a present of it,” rejoined Dick. The manly boy thought a good deal of his sister.

After this the boys went on, and a little later turned homeward.

Several days went by, and nothing of special interest happened.

But one day Carrie Burns came home in a flutter and sought out her brother without delay.

“Oh! Dick!” she cried, “something strange happened to me to-day.”

“What was it?”

“I met Lemuel Akers, and he began to talk to me, and all of a sudden he got as white as a sheet and began to tremble from head to foot.”

“What under the sun was the matter with him?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Must have been overcome by your beauty and that new dress,” laughed Dick good-naturedly.

“Oh, don’t joke, Dick! I’m not in the humor for it. Lemuel was dreadfully frightened.”

“But what at?”

“I don’t know. He was talking and looking at that pin you found——”

“What!”

Dick, who was oiling his bicycle, let the can drop and sprang upright.

“Oh! Dick! how you scared me!”

“What did you say Lemuel Akers was doing?” demanded Dick Burns.

“He was looking at that pin.”

“Where is the pin now?”

“Here,” and Carrie pointed to the velvet band around her dainty throat.

“Carrie, let me have that pin again, will you?”

“But, Dick, you gave it to me.”

“I know I did, but I’m not going to have you wear something that is going to scare Lemuel Akers to death.”

“I just wish it would scare him so he wouldn’t come near me again,” pouted Carrie.

She wanted to keep the pin, but Dick would not listen to it, and at last she gave the article up.

As soon as his wheel was oiled Dick rode straight to Simon Pepper’s jewelry store.

The crabbed old watchmaker sat behind his bench, repairing several timepieces.

Dick went at what was in his mind without beating about the bush.

“Mr. Pepper, do you remember the articles stolen from your store?” he questioned.

“O’ course I do,” growled Pepper. “Stuff don’t sell so fast in Lockport but what I have a chance to keep it on hand long enough to grow familiar with it.”

“Then will you please examine this pin?”

Simon Pepper snatched the pin from Dick’s hand eagerly.

“It’s mine!” he burst out. “It’s one of three I had.”

“Did you ever sell any of them?”

“No. Where did you get this one?”

“Found it on the road.”

“Where?”

“I’ll tell you some other time.”

“But see here, Dick Burns——”

“I won’t answer any questions now, Mr. Pepper. I found it on the road, and I think I can locate the thief.”

And without waiting to see what Pepper might have to remark on this strange statement, Dick hurried from the shop.

CHAPTER XVIII.

RACING A LOCOMOTIVE.

FROM Simon Pepper’s shop Dick Burns hurried at once to Joe’s home.

He found our hero weeding the garden, for the lad was always an industrious fellow when out of school.

“Joe!”

“Hullo, Dick! What now?”

“I’ve found out who robbed Simon Pepper’s shop.”

“Never!”

Joe dropped the weed in his hand like a hot potato and came forward.

“Who did the deed?”

“Lemuel Akers.”

“Really?”

“He did—unless I am greatly mistaken.”

“Tell me all about it,” went on Joe eagerly.

“You know the pin I picked up on the road just where you had the fight with Lemuel?”

“What of it?”

“It is one of those stolen from old Pepper’s shop.”

“And Lemuel dropped it, you think!” asked Joe.

“Why not? You didn’t drop it.”

“No, I’ll give my word I did not.”

“It was lying just where you and he had the tussle.”

“That is so.” Joe thought for a moment. “By George! I believe you are right, Dick!”

“It would be just like Lemuel to try to get you into trouble.”

“But my pocket-knife——”

“He could easily get that at school.”

“So he could.”

“I believe if Lemuel’s home was searched we would find something,” went on Dick, after a pause.

“It’s a wonder he didn’t sell the stuff or get it out of the way somehow.”

“Maybe he did sell most of the stuff. He’s got a new bike. Where did he get the money for that?”

“He says he saved it. But I never knew him to save a dollar.”

“Nor I.”

The two boys talked the matter over for half an hour.

Then Mr. Johnson came home, and he and Joe went over with Dick to see Mr. Burns.

The lawyer was much interested, for the time for Joe’s trial was close at hand. As we know, he intended to defend Joe, not only for the boy’s sake, but also on account of Dick.

“It may be that Akers is guilty,” said Mr. Burns. “The thing is to prove it.”

“We ought to watch Lemuel,” suggested Joe.

“Perhaps by so doing you may learn of something to his disadvantage.”

So it was arranged that an eye should be kept on Lemuel for a few days.

On the following morning Joe saw Akers riding through town, bound toward Greenpoint.

It was Saturday, and our hero instantly made up his mind to follow Lemuel all day, in the hope that something would turn up.

He readily got permission to leave home, and was soon on his wheel, speeding after the tall boy.

Akers rode directly to Greenpoint, and after having a luncheon there struck out to a point still further up the lake.

It was a fine day, but the recent heavy rains had caused several washouts along the lakeside road.

Mile after mile was passed, and at last the two reached Pemberton, at the head of the lake.

Joe had been very careful to keep out of sight, so Lemuel Akers had no idea that he was being followed.

At length Akers came to a halt in front of a shabby-looking second-hand store.

He chained his bicycle to a post, and, looking carefully around, walked into the establishment.

At once Joe’s suspicions were aroused. He left his machine at a store on the corner and hurried to the nearest window of the other store.

The window was piled high with goods, but through an open space Joe saw Lemuel Akers talking earnestly to an old, round-shouldered Jew, who stood leaning on a back counter.

Presently Lemuel brought a small package from his pocket and opened it.

The package contained a watch chain, two watches and a couple of gold rings.

The Jew took the articles, and, walking to the light, examined each one carefully.

Then the pair began to talk earnestly, as if haggling about a price.

At last the Jew wrote out several tickets and handed them and a roll of bills to Lemuel.

The tall boy pocketed the bills and tickets. Then he looked out of the store to see if the coast was clear.

Joe had just sufficient time to spring behind a billboard.

In another minute Lemuel Akers came forth. He mounted his wheel and rode off at top speed.

Our hero smiled to himself as he walked back to where he had left his own machine.

The truth was plain enough now. Akers had robbed Simon Pepper’s shop and was disposing of the stolen goods by pawning them.

Undoubtedly this process was safer than trying to sell the stolen articles.

“I have got him where I want him now,” thought Joe. “Simon Pepper can identify his goods and the Jew can identify Lemuel, and, besides, if we manage things right, we can find those pawntickets on his person.”

Thus reasoning, Joe left Pemberton not very far behind the tall boy.

Lemuel now took a different route, leading up to a summer resort.

Thinking it was no use to follow him longer, our hero struck out for home.

The road in this section ran parallel to the track.

Joe was feeling in prime condition, and he moved along at top speed.

Presently a whistle sounded, and, looking back, Joe saw the local express in the distance.

Hardly had he heard the whistle when there came a shriek from some distance ahead, where the road crossed the railroad tracks.

Joe listened and heard a man crying loudly:

“Save me from the train!”

The man was on the track, lying down. He had been struck by paralysis and could not move.

“What’s the matter?” yelled Joe.

“Help! help!” was the only reply the sufferer could make.

He was directly in the way of the oncoming train.

Joe waited to hear no more, but began to push on the pedals with all of his might.

Faster and faster he came down the smooth road, with the express thundering behind him.

It was Joe’s first and last race with a locomotive, and a life hung in the balance.

AN OLD MAN LAY HELPLESS ON THE TRACK.

“Rival Bicyclists.”

CHAPTER XIX.

LEMUEL AKERS’ GREAT PERIL.

THE race did not last long. It was a matter of less than half a minute.

But that few seconds showed what Joe could do in the way of spurting.

Down the road he came like a rocket, the wheels of his machine seeming to fairly fly through the air.

The crossing was reached while the express was still a hundred and fifty feet off.

Joe took a flying leap to the man’s side, leaving the bicycle to take care of itself.

He caught the man in his arms and flung both himself and his burden into a near-by ditch, and then the express thundered by.

For over a minute Joe was too weak to speak. The awful danger through which he had passed now dawned on him fully, and he arose trembling from head to foot.

The man he had rescued was unconscious.

Some people driving by had witnessed the thrilling scene and now came up.

They were loud in their praise of our hero.

The man was recognized as an old farmer living several miles away. He was subject to similar strokes to the present one, and rarely went out alone. He was taken home in a wagon, and the next day Joe received a warm letter from his wife, thanking him for his great service.

As soon as Joe arrived at home he told his parents of what he had seen, and then called again on Mr. Burns.

The lawyer was much pleased.

“Joe, you ought to turn detective,” he said.

“No, thanks,” smiled our hero. “I would rather be something else.”

“I know that old Jew,” went on the lawyer. “To-morrow I am going to Pemberton and will interview him. I fancy you are as good as cleared.”

“I am thankful for it,” responded Joe heartily.

Our hero kept on the lookout for Lemuel Akers, but the bully did not turn up until after supper.

That evening Joe and Dick went out on their wheels, visiting the spot where they had come near to riding into the river.

The new iron bridge was now up, and they now had no difficulty in crossing the deep mountain stream.

The chums spoke of Akers first, and, that subject exhausted, Dick told Joe of another bicycle meet soon to come off.

“We must both enter the races,” he said. “I am going in for five miles and you must go in the two and one mile.”

“I will,” said Joe.

They wheeled on until they were about five miles from home. Then they came out on the top of a high hill, from which they could look in every direction.

Here they rested, and while doing so Joe pointed to a strange light over in the direction of Lockport.

“What light is that, Dick?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Must be on the river.”

“It is growing larger.”

“So it is.”

The two boys watched the light for a minute in silence. Then suddenly both gave a cry:

“It’s a fire!”

They were right, for a second later the flames shot skyward all in one rush.

“Somebody’s house in Lockport!” cried Dick. “Joe, we must get back as soon as we can.”

Our hero made no reply, but leaped on his wheel. Soon they were pedaling along rapidly.

As they moved closer to Lockport the flames kept growing brighter and brighter, until the entire heavens were lit up.

“It’s more than one house, that’s certain,” remarked Joe. “Who knows but what the entire business portion is doomed.”

Joe said this because they could now make out that the fire was down in the vicinity of the stores and not over by the river, as they had originally supposed.

Not long after this they could hear the crackling of the flames and the shouts of the local firemen, who were doing their best to subdue the conflagration.

“It’s Rayley’s Row,” suddenly called Joe.

“So it is, and every house in it is doomed,” replied Dick.

Rayley’s Row consisted of six dwellings situated on the main street of Lockport, directly opposite the post office and main store.

Only two of the houses in the row were occupied, the others having been vacant for some time.

The vacant houses had caught first, having been most likely set on fire by tramps, who occasionally made their quarters there on the sly.

“We must join the bucket brigade!” cried Joe.

Lockport boasted of no fire engine, and the only way to put out a fire was by pouring buckets of water on it.

Half a dozen lines with buckets were working from as many pumps and cisterns to the scene of the fire.

Leaping from their machines, Joe and Dick joined one of the lines which was rather short of hands.

In a second bucket after bucket came to each, to be passed to the next man or boy in the line.

“Lively, boys, the fire is gaining!” suddenly shouted Carl Lathrop.

“Form another line in the rear there!”

“Why don’t somebody bring a few ladders?”

“Are all the people out of the houses?” asked Charley Osborne.

“Yes, long ago.”

But this answer was a falsehood, as the next instant proved.

At the top of one of the middle buildings appeared a tall figure, waving its arms wildly over its head.

“For the love of heaven, won’t somebody save me?”

Everybody stared in mute amazement at the person who uttered the appeal.

It was Lemuel Akers!

He was surrounded by flames, and death stared him in the face.

CHAPTER XX.

JOE’S FATHER SAVES THE ENEMY.

JOE was as much astonished as any one to see Lemuel Akers on the top of one of the middle of the burning buildings.

How Lemuel had got there was a mystery, as the particular house in question was empty.

“It’s Lemuel!” cried Dick Burns.

“He is doomed!” ejaculated a bystander.

“Can’t they get a ladder to him?” asked our hero quickly.

Every one looked around. Several ladders were at hand, but none were long enough to reach the top of the house.

Besides, the lower floors were a mass of flames, which shot out of the numerous windows in all directions.

“He is doomed!” cried Larry Dare.

“Nothing can save him!” put in Sam Anderson.

“The foolish boy! What was he doing in that empty house?” queried Carl.

And so the cries ran on.

Lemuel Akers’ relatives were frantic and offered all sorts of rewards to any one who would go to the rescue.

“I’ll save him!”

It was Mr. Johnson who uttered the cry, and the bystanders looked at him in amazement.

“You can’t do it, Johnson.”

“You are crazy; no one can go into that building and get out alive.”

“I don’t intend to go into the building,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Then how will you save him?”

“I’ll show you.”

Mr. Johnson ran around until he found a light but strong washline.

The end of this line he tied securely to the upper rung of the longest ladder to be had.

Then he crossed the road to where stood a gigantic elm tree.

The tree was fully sixty feet from the burning building, but its branches spread out in every direction.

With an agility that would have done credit to a circus performer our hero’s father went up the trunk of the tree in double-quick order.

Once among the branches he drew the ladder up after him.

He kept on going up until he was on a branch on a level with the roof of the burning building.

Then with caution he worked his way outward. It was a dangerous proceeding, as a slip from his resting place might have meant death.

More than once the wind sent the smoke swirling about his head. At such times all he could do was to hold his breath and wait until the wind changed.

“Save me! Save me!” screamed Lemuel Akers. He was on the point of swooning from terror.

“Keep up your courage, Lemuel!” cried Mr. Johnson. “I am coming.”

“Where are you? I can’t see you.”

“Here in the tree.”

“I can’t jump to the tree.”

“Prepare to catch the end of the ladder I have brought up.”

“Have you a ladder?” and for the first time Lemuel’s tone took on a bit of hope.

“Yes. Watch for it.”

Out and out crawled Mr. Johnson, until he was within twenty feet of the roof beyond.

Then he brought the ladder up, resting the end against a smaller limb above.

When the lower end was at hand he tied it fast, so that it might not slip away.

“Now watch for it, Lemuel!” he cried.

Then, calculating the distance as best he could, the man shoved the top end of the ladder forward.

It fell just a little sideways, but the top overlapped the building gutter by two feet.

“Now come over!” cried the man to the frightened prisoner.

“I—I—can’t,” howled Lemuel. “I’ll fall to the ground.”

“Nonsense! Crawl from rung to rung and you’ll be perfectly safe.”

With his teeth chattering in his head, Lemuel Akers got down flat on his stomach and began to crawl at a snail’s pace toward the tree.

“Hurry up, the roof is catching!” called out Mr. Johnson. “Quick!”

Groaning and trembling, the big boy, more of a coward than ever, hurried himself, and half a minute later found himself safe in the tree.

“Now you can get down all right, I reckon,” said our hero’s father coldly.

Despite the excitement he had not forgotten how Lemuel had treated Joe.

“Oh, I can get down all right enough,” was Akers’ reply. “I was going to jump into the tree, anyway.”

And he turned his back on his rescuer and slid down to the ground.

Mr. Johnson remained above to pull away the ladder that it might not be burned. Willing hands helped him bring the ladder down.

“By jinks! but that was great!” cried Dick Burns, and he fairly hugged Joe. “Your father is a brave man.”

“Lemuel don’t think so.”

“Lemuel Akers is an ungrateful dog!” cried a man standing by. “He ought to be kicked out of the town.”

“That’s what I say!” put in another.

“He would have lost his life had it not been for Mr. Johnson.”

“Who said that?” exclaimed Lemuel, pushing his way forward. “Saved my life! Not much! I was just going to jump into the tree, anyway! I ain’t so very thankful, because I don’t fancy having the father of a jailbird——”

Lemuel got no further.

There was a dangerous fire in Joe’s eyes, but before he could move on the tall boy Dick Burns stepped between.

“Lem Akers, shut your mouth this instant! No, Joe, don’t whip him again, he isn’t worth it.”

“See here, Dick Burns—” howled Lemuel.

“I won’t listen to you,” went on Dick. “Do you want to know why? Because, while you insist on calling Joe a jailbird, I firmly believe you are the one who robbed Simon Pepper’s store.”

The crowd heard the words and stood in surprise. Every eye was cast on Lemuel Akers, who turned deadly white.

“Me?” he stammered. “Do you know what you are talking about, Dick Burns?”

“I do. I firmly believe you are the thief. Maybe when Joe’s trial comes off, the public will be treated to a surprise.”

What might have followed these words it is hard to say, for at that instant there came a strange cracking sound.

“Run! run! the wall is falling!”

Men and boys scattered in all directions.

The warning came too late, however, for all, for the crowd had been too close to the fire.

Down came a section of the row of dwellings. The burning timbers were hurled in all directions, and some of the pieces fell upon Dick Burns and Lemuel Akers, and they were stretched senseless upon the ground.

CHAPTER XXI.

AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.

A CRY of horror arose on every side, heard even above the crash of falling walls, as one after another of the doomed buildings went down.

“Dick Burns and Lemuel Akers are under the timbers!”

Then a rush was made, in spite of smoke and flames, and the two boys were dragged to a place of safety.

A dash of cold water revived Dick, and he was soon on his feet again, suffering nothing more serious than a big lump on his forehead.

Lemuel Akers had been hurt in the chest.

“Call Dr. Hoymark, somebody! He is in the crowd!”

The cry for the doctor soon brought that medical gentleman to Lemuel’s side.

He directed that several men carry the big boy to the drug store. Here Lemuel was placed on a couch, and the doctor went to work on him, while a number of men, including Mr. Johnson and Simon Pepper, stood around.

With a sharp pair of scissors the doctor cut open Lemuel’s shirt. Then he asked somebody to help him remove the boy’s coat and vest.

Simon Pepper stepped forward, and the two went to work. Hardly were the garments removed than the watchmaker gave a gasp of astonishment.

“Mine!”

“What’s that?” asked Dr. Hoymark.

“Look! look! my chains and my pins!” howled Simon Pepper.

He seemed to have suddenly lost his reason. He was tearing open a package which had dropped from Lemuel Akers’ breast.

“Your chains and pins!” said Lawyer Burns.

“Yes! yes! Oh, the rascal! He must have been the thief, and not Joe Johnson!”

“You have struck it, Pepper,” responded the lawyer quietly.

Simon Pepper opened the package and spread the contents on a near-by counter. There was about half the amount stolen from the shop.

“I will tell you where you can find nearly all the rest,” said Lawyer Burns.

“Where?”

The lawyer started to tell about the pawnbroker in the next town, when Lemuel came to his senses and sat up.

“What—is—the—matter?” he asked slowly.

And then, seeing Simon Pepper, his hand stole to his breast.

“I have found you out!” howled the watchmaker. “You thief! And you tried to put it off on Joe Johnson!”

He was even more angry than he had been at our hero, and with far greater reason.

“Gently,” interposed Dr. Hoymark. “Remember he is suffering.”

And then he thrust the jeweler aside until he could attend to Lemuel. In his dismay at being found out, the tall boy forgot all about his bruises. He let the doctor fix him up, and then, putting on his coat and vest again, sneaked off without a word of thanks to any one.

“An ungrateful boy,” murmured the doctor.

“And a thoroughly bad one,” added Lawyer Burns.

The news soon spread and reached the ears of all the town people.

Nearly every one said it was no surprise. All had believed Joe innocent from the start.

It was thought that Lemuel had used the empty house as a place to hide the jewelry, and when the row caught fire had gone in to get the booty out.

In the meanwhile the fire had burned itself out. Men and boys worked heroically, and nothing burned but the row, although quite a high wind was blowing.

Much praise was given to Mr. Johnson for what he had done for Joe’s enemy.

Lawyer Burns at once took steps toward having the case against Joe quashed. In this he was successful, and a couple of days later every one knew that Joe was free from the shadow which had been cast over his fair name.

Then came a big surprise. Lemuel Akers had been arrested. No one had gone his bail, and he had been placed in the town jail, a primitive and rickety affair, which had once been a carpenter’s shop.

From this place of confinement the thief had escaped, and no one knew where he had gone.

The town authorities took the matter in hand, but without results. Lemuel was missing and that was as far as the single constable who did the work on the case could get.

It is possible that his folks knew where he was, but if they did, they did not let on.

CHAPTER XXII.

A TUG OF WAR.

“YOU can’t do it!”

“We can!”

“I’ll bet you boys a new baseball outfit you can’t!”

“We’ll take you up, Captain Brown,” came from three boyish throats in chorus.

“All right, lads, I’ll stick to my word. If you can pull Dan Risley, Mike Farrell and Peter Gibson over the line in a tug of war you shall have the best outfit to be bought in Greenpoint.”

There was a shout, and three boys crowded around the speaker.

“That outfit is as good as ours,” cried Sam Anderson, the leader of the trio.

“Of course it is,” put in Joe, who was also present.

“We’ll pull ’em over at the first word,” added Charley Osborne.

Captain Brown of the Lockport hotel smiled. He thought that what the boys proposed to do was impossible.

The fact of the matter was the captain and the three lads had been sitting on the hotel porch watching the carpenters on the building opposite trying to hoist up several heavy timbers. The timbers had remained on the ground, awaiting a machine hoist, and the boys had remarked that they could do better than the men.

One word had brought on another, until a tug of war was spoken of between the three carpenters on one side and the three boys on the other.

The boys had always wanted a new baseball outfit, and now they thought they saw a chance of winning it.

When the carpenters came down from the building the contest was mentioned to them, and they readily agreed to take part whenever the boys were ready.

Sam sounded the others and decided to bring matters to a head on the following Saturday afternoon at three o’clock.

The tug of war between the three boys on one side and the three men on the other was to come off on the village green, and as it became noised about the town great preparations were made for the event.

“We must win, that is all there is to it,” Joe declared over and over again.

“It’s rather unequal, when you come to think of it,” remarked Charley. “Men ought to be stronger than boys.”

“Not stronger than the members of the Lockport Baseball Club,” said our hero.

From that time on until the memorable Saturday afternoon the boys did nothing but practice for the coming contest.

They procured an old but stout rope, and going into the woods along the river tied one end to a young tree and then tried for hours at a time to drag the tree to the ground.

This developed their muscles wonderfully.

At last came the Saturday. The boys heard that the men were all ready for them.

“They have been practicing too,” said Dick Burns, who was greatly interested in the contest. “I just heard it from Jake Foley.”

“They won’t lose without a tough struggle, that’s certain,” returned Joe. “But don’t be worried. We must have confidence or we won’t win.”

When the boys reached the village green half an hour before the contest was to come off they found it crowded with men, women, and young folks.

“Here they come!” was the cry.

“And here come the men,” was added a moment later, as the three carpenters hove in view.

Captain Brown had provided a brand new rope. The line, as it is called, was marked off, and the boys took their position at one end and the men at the other.

“Are you ready?” asked the captain.

There were several seconds of silence.

“Pull!” he yelled, and flung his hat on the ground to signal that the battle royal was on.

What a straining and tugging there was! Both teams dropped into position and the knot in the rope remained where it had been placed, directly on the line.

“Pull ’em over!” yelled Dick.

“Don’t give ’em an inch!” added Carl Lathrop.

“The boys are plucky!”

“Yes, but the men are the stronger.”

So the cries ran on.

At the end of ten minutes—it seemed an age—it was noticed that the men were gaining. The knot was over to their side all of two inches.

“What did I tell you?”

“The boys are plucky, but they haven’t the weight.”

Sam had his teeth shut hard. He heard the remarks, but paid no attention to them.

Suddenly he uttered a slight hissing sound. It was the signal that one of their opponents was off his guard.

Instantly the boys planted their feet back and gave a sudden and strong pull.

Up came one carpenter after another, grunting as they did.

In vain they tried to fall back into their places.

It was too late, and in a second more the boys dragged them over the line with a rush.

What a cheer went up!

Even the carpenters joined in.

“You did it, by the great horn spoon, you did it!” cried the captain. “And the baseball outfit is yours!”

And it was.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ANOTHER BALL GAME.

A FEW days later the Rushers played another game of ball, this time with a nine from Greenpoint. As Dick Burns was now well again he played at second base, while Joe took his old position behind the home plate and Charley Osborne pitched as before.

There was a bitter rivalry between Lockport and Greenpoint at the time, so far as baseball matters went.

“We must win this game, sure,” said Captain Brown, who, since giving the baseball outfit, had taken a special interest in the club.

“I’ll do my share,” said Charley.

“So will I,” added Joe.

A crowd came to witness the game.

In the first inning Charley gave four boys bases on balls and the Greenpointers scored two runs.

“That Lockport pitcher is no good,” said the crowd.

In the second inning Charley pitched a wide ball over Joe’s head.

Our hero did his best to get it, but it was beyond his reach.

He ran like the wind, but before he could grab the sphere another run was scored for Greenpoint.

Meanwhile the Rushers had but one run, made by Dick.

Captain Brown came forward.

“See here, you two must do better than this,” he said to Joe and Charley.

“It’s the ball,” growled Charley. “Let me have a new ball.”

“Nothing the matter with the ball.”

“I say there is,” returned Charley stoutly.

“Let me see it?”

The captain took the ball and examined it.

Then he called the umpire aside.

“Look here, Clarkson, what do you think of this?” he said sharply.

“What’s the matter?” asked the umpire.

“Look at this ball.”

The umpire did as requested.

“Side heavy.”

“Yes. And the cover has been resewed. This is a doctored ball.”

“Don’t know but what you are right. Where did it come from?”

“Don’t know. But the Greenpoint pitcher threw it to Charley Osborne when they went in.”

“Humph! Let us investigate later on. Try a new ball.”

The new ball came out, and several of the Greenpoint team were seen to exchange glances.

“They know something about this,” said Charley to Joe.

With a new ball Charley did better work. He sent in some wonderful curves, and our hero caught out seven men in rotation.

At the end of the first half of the ninth inning the score stood nine to eleven in favor of the Greenpoint nine.

Then the Rushers went to the bat.

It was their last effort to win the game.

“Wake up, boys!” cried Captain Brown.

“Do your best, Dick!”

Dick Burns was the first at the bat.

He hit a safe one to center and got first.

Charley followed, and also reached first on a bunt, while Dick went to second.

The next boy struck out, and the following fellow did the same.

Then our hero came to the bat.

Dick was on third and Charley on second.

“Now is the time for one of your long hits,” said the captain to Joe.

The pitcher of the Greenpointers smiled to himself.

He saw that Joe would hit the ball, and hit it hard, if it came where he wanted it.

Consequently he resolved to pitch the ball as far as possible out of our hero’s reach without getting too many balls called.

“One ball!”

“One strike!”

“Two balls!”

“Three balls!”

Joe understood the pitcher’s trick and got angry.

“Give me something over the plate,” he said.

“Shut up, I know what I am doing,” growled the Greenpoint youth.

He remembered that the boy to bat next to Joe was a weak fellow who could be put out with ease.

Along came another ball.

It was a grounder, but our hero made up his mind to do the best he could with it.

Bang! He hit the sphere with all the power in his arms.

It was a red-hot liner, and it came straight for the pitcher’s head.

The Greenpoint player knew better than to try to stop it.

He attempted to get out of the way.

The ball struck his arm and bounded far out over the foul line between home plate and first.

In the meantime Joe was making time down to first.

Dick came home as if a swarm of hornets were after him, and Charley followed.

The Greenpoint catcher had run for the ball, thinking the pitcher would come up and cover home plate.

But the pitcher did nothing of the sort. Instead he was nursing his arm, which felt as if it had been struck with a brick.

Consequently Dick and Charley had nothing to fear when they came in.

The catcher even when he did get the ball fumbled it and threw wild to second.

Joe reached second and, seeing the ball sailing over the baseman’s head, bounded for third.

The second baseman ran back for the ball and the center-fielder ran up.

The two came into collision and down both went on top of the sphere.

“Throw the ball, Gimp!”

“Send it in, Hemingway!”

Joe landed safely on third. His club was cheering wildly.

“Come in, Joe, come in!”

“They can’t get the ball up!”

The catcher of the Greenpointers was getting frantic. He danced around the home plate like a madman.

“Throw the ball! Throw the ball!” he screamed.

But the ball did not come.

The second baseman managed to get to his feet just as Joe started for home.

Then up popped the center-fielder.

Both looked at each other.

Neither had the ball.

They looked on the ground, but the sphere was not in sight.

By this time every one present was yelling.

“Where is the ball?”

“Throw it in!”

“What kind of a game is this, anyhow?”

Joe was sprinting as hard as he could and was halfway home.

Suddenly the center-fielder put his hand into his shirt, which had been torn open while struggling on the ground, and out came the ball.

The crowd set up a groan.

The Lockport players roared.

Highly excited over the unexpected discovery he had made, the center-fielder let drive the ball for home.

His aim was wild, and the ball flew about six feet over the catcher’s head.

Joe dropped into a walk and sauntered up to the plate as coolly as if out for an evening stroll.

His extraordinary run had won the game.

Perhaps the Greenpoint team was not angry!

The catcher scolded the pitcher, the second baseman howled at the catcher, and the center-fielder said the baseman had put the ball in his shirt.

The game ended right there and the out-of-town club sneaked for their stage as fast as they were able.

It was a long while before they heard the end of that game.

Joe was praised for the way he had served the pitcher with the red-hot liner.

“That’s right, make him pitch you a good ball,” said the captain.

As the Greenpoint Club had been beaten nothing was said about the doctored ball.

But in the future Charley Osborne kept his eyes open whenever he started to pitch with a strange or new ball.

CHAPTER XXIV.

AN AMUSING WAY TO CATCH A SNEAK.

THE boys had built a shed at the ball grounds where they could put their street clothing and don their baseball outfit.

One day a player named Washton came to the others with a long face.

“See here, this is getting too thin,” he said.

“What is getting too thin, Washton, your shirt?” and Captain Brown, who was a jolly sort of a chap, smiled at his little joke.

“No, this stealing in the dressing-room.”

“I didn’t know there was any stealing going on,” and the captain grew sober.

“It don’t amount to a great deal, but it is enough to worry one,” went on Washton. “Last week I lost a silk handkerchief, and to-day my cardcase with six cents in stamps is gone.”

“I had my handkerchief taken, too,” said another player.

“I had three photographs stolen,” put in a third.

“A new rule book I had is gone,” said Joe. “But I thought I had lost it on the street.”

A watch was set for the sneak thief, but he could not be detected.

A week passed and more small articles disappeared.

Joe was one of the main sufferers, and he resolved to catch the guilty party if such a thing could be accomplished.

He suspected a negro lad named Jeff Lumson, who was in the habit of hanging around the club on the watch to do errands and thus pick up a few cents.

Joe set a watch over Jeff, but could not catch him in the act of stealing.

Yet he became certain the colored boy was guilty.

“I’ll fix him,” said our hero to Washton.

“Hope you do,” grumbled the other player.

On the following morning Joe went down to the fish market. Here he hunted around until he came across a chap who had live crabs to sell.

Joe bought three of the smallest and toughest looking of the crabs and put them in a basket.

He took the basket to the shed at the grounds and told Washton of his scheme.

When the boys went on the field they left the crabs in their inside coat pockets.

Half the game went by and in the excitement Joe forgot all about the crabs.

Then the Lockport team came in to take their turn at the bat.

Suddenly a loud yell was heard coming from the shed.

“Come on!” shouted Joe. “I have the sneak!”

The umpire called time, and all started forward.

At the door to the shed they came upon Jeff the negro. He was a sight to behold. His hands were covered with blood, and to his right thumb hung two of the crabs.

“Help! murder! Take dem off!” he shrieked.

“Jeff, what are you doing with my crabs?” demanded Joe sternly.

“Ain’t doin’ nuffin’, ’pon my word, Joe!” groaned the colored boy. “Take dem off before I’se bit to pieces!”

“Do you own up that you are the sneak we’ve been looking for?” asked Washton.

“Oh, let me go! I’se——”

“Own up, or we’ll let the crabs have another innings at you!” said Charley Osborne.

“I owns up; yes, I does!” groaned Jeff. “Let me go an’ I’ll gib you back all de stuff I took.”

“All right,” said Joe.

A bucket of water was handy, and this he held under each crab. As soon as the crustaceans saw their native element they dropped into the bucket.

Jeff continued to groan, but no one sympathized with him.

The stolen stuff was taken from him and then he was kicked out of the grounds by all hands.

Some of the Lockport players thought he was a sort of Mascott for the club, but this proved to be false, for that day they beat their opponents, a heavy team, too, by fourteen to three.

CHAPTER XXV.

JOE’S TRIP TO BOSTON.

THE summer holidays were now at hand and Joe took again to his wheel, in company with Dick Burns.

“Baseball is all well enough,” he said. “But wheeling is the better sport of the two after all.”

“I am with you on that,” replied Dick. “I would rather ride than eat.”

“That is, if you weren’t too hungry,” laughed Joe. “By the way, I wonder what has become of Lemuel Akers,” he went on.

“I wonder, too. I rather fancy he will never return to Lockport,” said Dick.

On the day after this talk Joe was hoeing corn in his father’s field, when Dick came over, accompanied by a tall and handsome young man.

“Let me introduce my friend, Wilbur Rand, Joe,” he said.

Joe instantly dropped the hoe and shook hands. Then he invited the pair to a bench under an apple tree.

“I am glad to know you,” said Wilbur Rand. “I heard all about your bicycle victory at Elmwood.”

Our hero saw Dick and his friend had come up on bicycles, and he asked Wilbur Rand how he liked to ride.

Dick burst out laughing.

“Wilbur is a professional rider, Joe,” he explained.

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes, that is how I make my living,” replied Wilbur Rand. “And, by the way, Dick tells me you are more of a rider than most folks think.”

“I can ride some,” replied Joe modestly.

That evening the three went out together.

Wilbur Rand had for several years been connected with the League of American Wheelmen, but during the last six months had become an out-and-out professional rider.

He had traveled through the West and made a fair sum of money. He was now training for a race in Boston, and after that intended to go to Europe.

Rand knew all the great riders personally, and Joe listened with breathless interest as he told of many races and how they were lost or won.

“How I would like to have been in some of them!” murmured Joe, as his eyes glistened with anticipation.

“You’ll get there,” said the professional rider.

Wilbur Rand remained at Lockport for over a week.

At the end of that time he paid a special visit to our hero’s home.

“I want to get Joe to go to Boston with me,” he said to Mr. Johnson. “I will pay all of his expenses if you will let him go.”

“What for?”

“I want him to help me train. He is just the right kind of a companion. Dick Burns will go with us.”

The matter was talked over for several hours, and then Mr. Johnson and his wife gave their consent.

It was a bright, clear day when our hero left home. His friends came to the train to see him off.

Joe enjoyed the trip very much, but he was still more pleased when the great Eastern city was reached.

He took many rides around when not pacing Wilbur Rand. He went over to the Bunker Hill Monument and to a dozen other places of interest.

At last came the time for the great race, and it found Wilbur Rand in prime condition.

The races were held on the regular cycling field, and a very large crowd attended.

Joe was deeply interested. He did all he could for Rand, and so did Dick Burns.

When the race was finished Wilbur Rand was the winner of first place.

Joe and Dick shouted themselves hoarse.

Wilbur was much elated, and then and there he made Joe a present of fifty dollars for his services as a pacer and otherwise.

Joe would not at first accept the gift, but Wilbur Rand insisted.

“Take your wheel and the money, and get the best bicycle you can,” said Rand. “You yourself are cut out for a professional and a winner. Mark my words, we shall meet again, and on the track.”

Dick and Joe saw Wilbur Rand off on the steamer bound for Europe, and then returned to Lockport.

CHAPTER XXVI.

JOE’S BIG RACE.

A COUPLE of weeks later Joe procured his wheel, which was worth a hundred dollars. It was a racer, and weighed only nineteen and three-quarter pounds.

Our hero was very proud of the machine.

“To ride on it is like sailing along on wings,” he said to Dick. “Just watch me go!”

And go he did, so rapidly that his chum was soon left far behind.

Several weeks went on, and meanwhile Mr. Johnson was thrown out of work.

This would not have been so bad, but he owed two hundred and fifty dollars on a note, and this was coming due.

He had not the money to pay up, and the holder of the note refused to renew the same.

He spoke of his trouble to his wife and to Joe.

“If I can’t pay up I’ll be sued and sold out,” said Mr. Johnson.

“If I could get the money on my bicycle I would sell that,” said Joe promptly.

“No, I must have the whole amount,” replied his father.

On the very day that the money would come due there was to be a series of races for cash prizes in Cleveland.

Joe heard of the races through Dick, who advised him to enter for the five-mile event.

“You might win something, Joe, and it would be a feather in your cap,” said Dick.

“I haven’t the money to enter.”

“It’s only ten dollars, and I’ll put it up.”

“But the car fares?”

“I’ll pay those, too. You can pay me back out of your winnings.”

“But suppose I lose?”

“You won’t lose, excepting through an accident, and in that case I’ll pocket my loss.”

The proposition interested Joe greatly, and finally he agreed to take Dick up.

Every night he went out for practice, hardening his muscles by long climbs up hill.

He also took much exercise to develop his lung power, so that he could spurt.

“I’ll win something, or else know the reason why,” he said to himself.

By Dick’s request he said nothing of the races to his parents. Dick entered him, and when they went off Mr. Johnson paid no attention.

Behind it all Joe wanted very much to win the first prize of two hundred dollars.

“It would help father out of his difficulty, I feel sure,” he thought. “Oh, I must win; there are no two ways about it.”

Joe knew that both his father and his mother were much worried over the note.

His father had a hundred dollars, but that was not two hundred and fifty.

Joe and Dick arrived at the race track several hours before the races. Joe was in prime condition and felt confident.

As the pair rode around the grounds Dick suddenly called to our hero:

“Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“Lemuel Akers.”

“No! Where?”

“Back of that grand stand.”

“I saw nobody I know,” replied Joe. “You must be mistaken, Dick.”

“I guess not.”

Dick Burns hurried off, while Joe continued to exercise himself.

Pretty soon Dick came back.

“Well?”

“He got away. But I am sure it was Lemuel.”

It was now time for the first race to come off, and the track was cleared of all but those who were to take part.

It was a mile event, and there were twelve entries.

An old favorite won, and this, of course, put the crowd in good humor.

Then came half a dozen other events.

At last the five-mile race was called.

“Now is your time, Joe,” said Dick. “Go in and win.”

Dick accompanied Joe to the starting point that he might hold him up and shove him off at the shot.

Ten young men entered the race, all much older, however, than Joe.

“Who is that boy?” asked several.

“Can it be possible that he expects to win?”

“He’ll be left at the first mile.”

Joe heard the unkind remarks, but he paid no attention to them.

He set his teeth hard and looked to see that everything about his bicycle was in first-class order.

If he lost, it should not be the fault of careless preparation.

There was a slight delay, and then a really beautiful start was effected.

“Go it, Barnstable!”

“Show ’em what you can do, Royal!”

At the end of the first lap the men were all in a bunch, with Joe a few yards behind them.

“Didn’t I tell you the boy wouldn’t be in it?”

“What do they want to let a mere lad go in a race like this for?”

“Well, he’ll be out his entrance money, that’s certain.”

“Don’t you mind, Joe,” cried Dick, and he was the only one in that great crowd to give our hero any encouragement.

Joe smiled to himself when he heard Dick’s cry. He knew perfectly well what he was doing.

All those men ahead could not keep up that burst of speed.

At the third lap one began to lag behind, and Joe passed him.

A mile was passed, and Joe was ahead of three of the racers.

“The boy holds on pretty good!”

“Maybe he’s getting his second wind.”

Two miles, and Joe occupied fourth place.

On and on went the racers. The end of the third mile found Joe fighting for third place.

Another lap, and the place was his and Redding dropped behind.

Then Joe tackled the second man, Clover. But Clover was an old rider, and was not to be beaten so easily. For a lap and a half he rushed on, just a wheel’s length ahead.

“He can’t come it over Clover!”

“Bob’s too much for him!”

Then Joe began to spurt. The end of the race was not far off.

Like a rocket he flashed up beside Clover; it was wheel and wheel for a hundred feet.

Then Joe shot ahead.

“The boy has passed him!”

“Clover is out of it. There he goes down!”

The cry was true. The spurt had caused Clover to faint.

He fell, and his fall caused a general break-up behind him.

But several riders escaped and went on, while the injured were carried as quickly as possible out of the way of further harm.

In the meanwhile Joe kept on.

Barnstable was a hundred feet ahead.

Could he pass the leader?

“I must do it! I must!”

And so thinking, Joe increased his spurting.

At the turn he happened to glance up and in a corner of the fence saw Lemuel Akers. But just then he gave no thought to his enemy.

That race was everything to him.

Another lap, and Barnstable’s lead was cut down nearly one-half.

Suddenly the spectators gave a cry of amazement.

Something had been thrown on the track, directly in front of our hero.

Sizz! Bang!

The object had exploded with a deafening report just as Joe was riding close beside it!

CHAPTER XXVII.

JOE’S DOUBLE ESCAPE.

FOR the moment every one at the track thought Joe had been killed or fatally injured.

The bomb, or whatever it was, had gone off directly beside him.

A shower of dirt flew in every direction, and this, mingling with the smoke, hid our hero from view.

A cry of terror was followed by absolute silence. Every one looked dazed.

Then, from the midst of what was meant to injure him badly, Joe rode unharmed.

No, not entirely unharmed, for his clothing was torn and his left hand was bleeding.

But such trifles counted for nothing in view of what he had gone through.

“He’s out of it!”

“I thought he would be blown to pieces!”

“Who threw that thing on the track?”

“The miscreant ought to be lynched.”

Joe heard very few of the cries. Out of the awful situation he came with still but one purpose in his mind. He must win that race.

It is such grit that marks the truly successful boy and man.

Barnstable was fifty feet ahead, and they had just started on the last lap.

Joe bent over his handle bar and spurted as he had never spurted before.

The track seemed to fairly flash by under his feet. A hundred shouts rang in his ears.

“He’s crawling up on Barnstable!”

“Just see him spurt!”

“He was fooling at the start.”

“No, he wasn’t fooling, he was only saving his wind, and now he is going to show you what he can do.”

The last speaker was Dick Burns, and he told the truth.

Like a dart from a blowgun Joe came down the homestretch.

Barnstable was but ten yards ahead—now eight—now five—now only three!

Now they were side by side!

And the tape but six yards off.

“Beat him out, Barnstable!”

“Go, Joe, go!” yelled Dick.

Barnstable increased his speed—he was pedaling the race of his life.

But Joe also increased. Then our hero fairly stood on his pedals and on he went, over the line, a winner by a yard!

A silence—then a mighty shout that echoed and re-echoed on all sides.

“The boy has won!”

“Who is he?”

“Joe Johnson, of Lockport.”

“He’ll be a champion some day.”

“So he will.”

Eagerly the crowd surrounded Joe, anxious to make his acquaintance.

But Dick got there first, and it was Dick who hurried Joe off to his dressing-room.

“I knew you could do it, old man,” said Dick. “I am proud of you. Won’t this tickle Wilbur Rand when he hears of it!”

“I couldn’t have done it on the old wheel, Dick. The new machine won that race.”

“Nonsense! It was your endurance and pluck, Joe. Here, let me rub you down. The two hundred dollars are yours.”

Joe’s eyes glistened in spite of his exhaustion.

“Won’t father be pleased,” he murmured.

“It will help him out on that mortgage.”

“Exactly. When do I get my prize?”

“The money will be presented this evening at the clubhouse at eight o’clock.”

Then the two boys talked about the bomb.

“It was Lemuel Akers threw it on the track, I am certain of it,” said Joe.

“It’s just like him. So this is where he is holding out. We’ll have to report that fact at home.”

“I fancy it won’t do much good. He’ll keep out of the way for awhile.”

As soon as he was in condition Joe went outside again. Many were introduced to him, and soon he was a hail-fellow-well-met among the bicyclists.

The track authorities had set two special detectives at work on the bomb business, and they promised to find Lemuel Akers, if such a thing was possible.

Joe and Dick took supper with their new friends at the clubhouse. It was an elegant layout, and it is needless to say that our hero did full justice to what was set before him.

Then came a few speeches, and finally Joe was presented with a purse containing two hundred dollars in gold.

He thanked the club for the prize, making a speech that drew forth considerable applause, and half an hour later he and Dick withdrew in order to catch the last train that night back to Lockport.

“I must stop at a house on one of these side streets for a minute,” said Dick. “You go down to the depot and wait for me will you?”

“All right,” responded Joe.

Dick turned a corner and Joe went on his way. It was rather dark, as there was no moon.

The main street was torn up for a new sewer, so Joe took the back way to reach the railroad station. Unknown to him two men were close behind.

“He’s got that two hundred in his breast pocket,” said one man to the other. “I saw him place it there.”

“We must get it, Cuddy.”

“Of course. Two hundred can’t be picked up easier.”

So speaking the men followed Joe until a dark corner was reached.

Then one of them ran up and stopped Joe.

“Hold on, sonny.”

“What do you want?” demanded our hero sharply.

“I want that two hundred you have in your breast pocket.”

“What!”

“No nonsense now!” put in the second man. “Fork over and be quick about it!”

As he spoke the man drew a pistol.

Joe took in the situation on the instant.

These men were footpads. They had seen him put the money away and now they meant to rob him.

As quick as a flash he sprang back. Then on his machine hopped Joe, and pedaling off toward the depot. He had gone but a dozen yards when the man said:

“Stop! or I’ll fire!”

To this command and threat Joe paid no heed. He spun on, and a few seconds later reached the depot in safety.

He at once sought a policeman and told his story. The two went back, but the footpads had taken warning and cleared out.

“Next time I’ll be more careful how I show my money,” thought Joe.

It was not long after this that Dick came along. The train also arrived, and both boys got aboard.

“Well, Joe, you are a professional rider from to-day,” said Dick. “Your amateur days are over.”

Joe and Dick talked over future prospects all the way to Lockport.

It was very late when they arrived at their native town and they expected to see the station practically deserted.

What was their surprise to find it lit up on all sides with Chinese lanterns, while in the square a big bonfire was blazing.

“Hurrah for Joe Johnson!” sang out a hundred boys as our hero alighted.

The news of his victory had preceded him and the town boys were proud of him.

They had a little parade, some riding on their wheels and others marching on foot, and they escorted Joe home.

Here Mr. Johnson and Joe’s mother and Paul could scarcely credit their ears.

“Won two hundred dollars!” gasped his mother. “Oh, Joe!”

“Yes, mother,” he said proudly. And then he turned to his father: “Use it toward that note, father.”

And he held out the purse.

Mr. Johnson gladly accepted a hundred and fifty dollars, which, with the hundred he had, would pay off the two hundred and fifty.

“Keep the rest, Joe,” he said. “You more than deserve it.”

“So he does,” put in Paul. “Ain’t I glad though, Joe,” he added warmly.

“But you are out of work—” began Joe.

“No, I am happy to say that I have struck another situation,” replied Mr. Johnson.

“That’s good. Where?”

“With Mr. Fordham, at the planing mill.”

“Why, Mr. Akers worked there.”

“I know it. He was discharged last week for carelessness. He broke several very valuable planing knives.”

“The Akerses won’t like that,” said Joe soberly.

“I presume not. But the position was vacant and I can’t afford to remain idle on their account, Joe.”

“Certainly not, father,” replied Joe; and there the conversation dropped.

But Joe could not help but wonder what effect the turn of affairs would have on Lemuel Akers and his family.

He fancied, and rightly, too, that they would be very bitter over this unexpected change.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE MAD DOG.

IT was two evenings later that Joe arranged to go out bicycling with Carrie Burns, who had obtained a situation at the district school.

He was to meet her on the road next day after school hours, and they were to take a trip over a road which was comparatively new to her.

At the appointed time Joe looked for Carrie, but she did not put in an appearance.

He waited half an hour, and then, mounting his wheel, pedaled slowly toward the schoolhouse situated on the outskirts, between Lockport and Greenpoint.

He thought something had detained Carrie at the school, although he could not imagine what it could be.

On the way Joe met Josiah Arkley. The old farmer was glad to see him.

“I ain’t forgot how ye saved my henroost, Joe,” he said. “An’ I ain’t likely to forgit it. They tell me you air a downright good wheeler an’ makin’ money. I wish ye success, I do, on my word.”

“Thank you, Mr. Arkley,” said Joe, and then he rode on.

As he neared the schoolhouse he heard a scream of terror and recognized Carrie Burns’ voice.

Evidently Dick’s sister was in great peril.

Without hesitation our hero shot forward on his wheel.

“Help! Help!”

“What’s the trouble?” cried Joe.

“A mad dog! Save me!” shrieked pretty Carrie Burns.

Leaping to the ground, Joe ran up the schoolhouse steps and burst open the door.

A curious and thrilling sight met his gaze.

There, on a high desk, stood Carrie Burns. She held a heavy ruler in her hand, with which she was trying to ward off the repeated attacks of a small but ferocious dog, who was leaping and snarling about her.

That the dog was mad was evident. He was trying his best to catch her dainty foot between his gleaming teeth.

“Oh! Joe, save me!”

“I will, Carrie!”

On hearing Joe’s voice the dog turned around and started to attack our hero.

But Joe was too quick for him and sprang on a desk. Then he caught up a chair and whacked the dog over the back with it.

The cur rolled over and over, letting out a wild howl as he did so.

As he rolled Joe sprang down and caught him under the neck with one leg of the chair.

Before he could free himself our hero had him by the tail.

The schoolhouse was built on the bank of a wide stream, and the windows were open.

Swinging the cur around his head, Joe hurled him through a window.

He landed in the water with a splash and disappeared. But soon he came to the surface again, and then struck out for the opposite shore, a sadder if not a wiser dog.

Then Joe ran to Carrie’s side. She had been fighting off the dog for nearly an hour and was completely exhausted.

“Oh, Joe, you saved my life!” she murmured.

“I would do as much for you every day, Carrie,” he replied quickly, and then blushed.

It was some time later that the pair returned to Mr. Burns’ house.

Here Joe was again thanked. Later on he and Carrie took their ride, and both enjoyed it very much, despite the mad-dog incident.

The next few weeks were busy ones for Joe Johnson. He worked with his father, and during his spare time entered half a dozen races.

Of these races he won four and received prizes to the amount of nearly a hundred dollars.

With part of the money he bought his mother a new sewing machine, something she wished for very much.

The rest of the money went into the bank.

“I’ll not become a spendthrift, no matter how much I make,” said Joe to himself.

That winter a bicycle carnival was arranged to take place in the city of Chicago.

Joe was asked to enter, and he did so for a twenty-mile event.

Among those who entered against him was Wilbur Rand, who had just come back from a fairly successful tour, on which he had been showing off the merits of a new high-geared bicycle.

“What did I tell you, Joe?” cried Rand. “Didn’t I say we would meet again, and on the professional track?”

“I am sorry we are to race against each other,” said Joe soberly. “I want to see you win, and I don’t want to lose.”

“Just my idea of it, too. But we must both do our best. There must be no such thing as throwing the race into the other’s hands.”

“Oh, I know that.”

The carnival brought thousands of bicyclists to Chicago, and Joe made a great host of friends.

“I think this will be the last long race I will enter,” he said to Dick, who came on just to see Joe and Rand race.

“Why, Joe, what do you mean?”

“After this I am going in for one, two, and three mile events. I think I may win a championship in one of those events.”

“You can!” cried Dick. “You spurt so beautifully.”

The races were very successful in every way, excepting that in one event three of the riders were badly hurt.

On the second day of the carnival the twenty-mile event came off.

There were sixteen entries, and at the call every man appeared.

“You want to be careful of a pocket, Joe,” said Dick.

“And look out for smash-ups,” put in Wilbur Rand. “The track is not just what it might be. That other mishap proves it.”

It took some time to effect a good start. But at last they were off in a bunch.

All went well for several miles. Three men dropped out, leaving thirteen on the track.

An unlucky number, thought some people, and so it proved.

Joe occupied fifth place, with Wilbur Rand just ahead of him.

The three leaders were way ahead. But they were using themselves up, and must sooner or later drop behind.

Then came a burst from behind, and Wilbur Rand and Joe were surrounded.

Rand managed to escape, but Joe was “pocketed.”

In vain he tried to break out. Three riders held him steadily in check.

Joe was inclined to think he had been caught on purpose, but he could not prove it.

He drove along steadily, watching every movement the others made.

Half a lap was lost, and then our hero saw a fighting chance to clear himself.

One of the bicyclists had turned out about a foot.

This left a narrow space between the fellow and the man beside him.

Like an arrow from a bow Joe made a mighty spurt.

He shot through the opening like lightning, just grazing one of the men as he passed.

Before the fellows could realize it he was ten yards in advance of them.

“I’ll not get in such a pocket again,” he muttered to himself. “They mean to make me lose if they can.”

By this time Wilbur Rand was close up to the three men ahead, who were now in a close bunch.

These positions were held for over two miles. Then a cry rang out.

The first man had slipped at one of the turns and gone down. Almost instantly the second and third riders came down on top of him.

Before they could right themselves Wilbur Rand came up, with Joe close beside him.

Rand was riding at a furious rate, and it looked as if he, too, must be thrown amid that mass of wounded humanity and twisted wheels.

He tried to turn out and began to slip.

But Joe caught him by the shoulder.

“Steady!” he cried. “Steady! Now you are all right.”

It was all done quicker than it can be told. But the crowd saw and applauded.

Joe had saved Wilbur Rand from a dangerous fall, and perhaps from great injury.

On went the two riders side by side.

Then the wreck was cleared away and the others followed.

Some began to spurt, and again Joe was hard pushed from behind, while Wilbur Rand led by a dozen yards.

And now the last mile was on.

Joe rode as he had never ridden before. Slowly but surely he crawled up to Wilbur Rand.

“Here they come!”

“It’s going to be a close race!”

“Joe Johnson has caught up!”

“See, they are wheel and wheel!”

The shouts were deafening as Joe and Rand neared the end of the final lap.

They were indeed side by side. Neither was a single inch ahead.

A flash and the tape was crossed.

A tie!

“Hurrah for Joe Johnson!”

“Three cheers for Wilbur Rand!”

Wilbur Rand and Joe shook hands, while the crowd continued to cheer.

“Shall we divide or race it over?” asked Rand.

“Let us divide,” said Joe. “I would rather have it that way. We can be better friends.”

“Just my way of thinking.”

But Rand did not forget how Joe had saved him from falling.

Before they separated he made Joe a present of a handsome diamond scarfpin.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE BOY ON THE DERRICK ARM.

AFTER this great race Joe was looked upon more as a professional bicycle rider than anything else.

“He’ll make his mark, see if he don’t,” said his friends, and it looked as if this would be true.

Business in Lockport was picking up. Several new factories had been started and the town was fast growing into a city.

“Let us go into the bicycle business, father,” said Joe one day. “A store of that kind ought to pay.”

The matter was talked over for several weeks, and finally Mr. Johnson decided to make the venture, and a store was opened, with Paul and Joe in charge. Mr. Johnson was not to give up his present place until the new venture was an assured success.

This it speedily was, and Joe’s father resigned his position at the planing mill and enlarged the store, adding a general line of hardware and farming implements.

The ground where the old Rayley’s Row had stood had been cleared of all the débris left by the fire, and now the owners of the land were putting up a row of fine brick stores and dwellings which were destined to be the pride of the place.

Late one afternoon Joe was passing the buildings where a great number of children were at play in the heaps of sand and on the piles of lumber which incumbered the street.

Suddenly a boy on the top of one of the buildings let out a sharp cry of fear.

Joe looked up and saw a sight that almost caused his heart to stop beating.

The boy had in some way been caught on the end of the arm of a big derrick used for hoisting building material.

The arm had swung around and the boy now hung over the street, forty feet below.

He was caught only by his back, and should his coat rip away he would be hurled to his death.

Taking in the situation at a glance, our hero ran up one ladder after another until the top of the building was reached.

“Save Willie Gray!” screamed a dozen boys.

They were trying to swing the arm of the derrick around, but could not.

Some of the machinery would not work, and although Joe took a hand, the long arm with its human burden would not budge.

Then Joe resolved to go to the boy’s rescue.

Cautiously he climbed out on the long arm on hands and knees.

It was a daring thing to attempt.

Should Joe slip and lose his hold, he would fall forty feet to the pavement below.

That would mean but one thing—death.

Yet our hero did not falter. He was made of sterner stuff.

Inch by inch he moved along, while a crowd gathered in the street below to watch him.

“Be careful, young fellow!”

The derrick arm wobbled a little, and this made the daring feat still more difficult.

Joe was now within two feet of the boy, who was struggling madly to catch hold of the arm of the derrick.

Rip! The boy’s coat tore away from where it was caught, and the youth gave a scream, thinking he was lost.

With a quick leap our hero grabbed him by the collar just as he was dropping.

“He has him!”

“A close call for the youngster!”

With his strong right arm Joe landed the boy on the top of the derrick arm. But the lad was too frightened to save himself even then and clutched at Joe.

“Save me! Don’t leave me!” he moaned piteously.

It was no easy matter for our hero to move backward with the frightened lad clinging to him. Yet back he went, inch by inch.

The crowd held its breath, expecting each instant to see Joe and his charge come crashing to the pavement.

But at last the top of the building was reached.

The boy had fainted.

He was quickly surrounded by a score of men and women, among the number being his mother.

The thankful woman hugged the boy to her breast and then turned to thank Joe for his great service.

But the brave youth was not to be found.

He had slipped through the crowd and hurried down the several ladders to the street.

The boys wondered what made Joe so sober that night and the next day.

The local paper came out with a long account of the daring rescue, and our hero received great praise.

For a long while after this matters moved along quietly with Joe.

One day, while he was sitting on the porch, talking over bicycle races with a rider named Roy Crossley, Mr. Johnson came to him with a bulky envelope.

“Suppose you deliver this letter for me on your wheel?” said Mr. Johnson. “It will give you something to do, and I would rather have it delivered by hand than trust it in the mails.”

“Where is it to go?”

“To a man named Franshaw, who lives up about two miles back of Independence. If I put it in the mails he may not get it for three or four days, and I want to see him to-morrow, if possible. Perhaps Roy would like to ride with you.”

“Certainly; we were just wondering where we should go,” replied Roy Crossley.

“We can’t go up there and back by dinner time, though,” put in Joe.

“Then let us take our lunches and make a day of it,” suggested the other bicyclist.

This was agreed upon; and half an hour later the two boys set off on their bicycles, each with a neat lunch in paper strapped to his handle bar, and Joe with the communication for Mr. Franshaw tucked away in a back pocket, under his blue sweater.

The early morning had been somewhat misty, but now the sun came out strong for a day in the spring time. The roads were dry, but without dust, ideal in every way for the trip before them.

“As we have the whole day before us, let us take it easy,” suggested our hero, as Roy started off at his usual high rate of speed.

“Joe, you’re getting lazy!” laughed Roy. “Come on. I’ll race you to the turn.”

But Joe would not race, and his chum was forced to slow down, much to his dissatisfaction. Slowly they rode on, and turned into the road leading to Independence.

“I wish I’d had a drink before I left home,” remarked Joe presently. “I’m awfully thirsty.”

“We can stop at the next house for water,” returned Roy, but before the next building was reached they espied an old-fashioned well situated in a rocky field to their right.

“We’ll get a drink up there,” cried Joe. “Come on;” and coming to a halt, he dismounted and dragged his wheel up against the rail fence. Roy followed, and the pair were soon over the fence and into the field. They had quite some fun working the long well sweep, and when Roy was getting his drink out of the mossy bucket Joe playfully ducked his nose for him, and got a handful of water down his neck in consequence.

“I like to drink out of an old well,” observed Roy, when they were once more on their journey. “The water seems to taste sweeter, especially if you drink right out of the bucket.”

“Pure imagination,” laughed Joe, who was not of a poetical nature. “Might as well say you would like to eat a beefsteak right out of the frying pan.”

A hamlet called Bytown had been passed, and now they came to a long hill, rather steep in places. Halfway up this Joe called a halt.

“We can rest and then walk the remainder of the way,” he observed, and threw himself down on the sward, with his back against a huge stone.

“Well, you are lazy to-day and no mistake,” said Roy, but he was compelled to follow his chum’s lead. “We haven’t so everlastingly far to go that you’ve got to save your wind in this fashion.”

“It’s far enough, considering the hills.”

“Who is this Mr. Franshaw we are to call on?”

“He used to be a builder in Greenpoint. Some years ago he and my father did quite some work together.”

“Your father said it was important he should get the letter at once.”

“Yes. It’s about some building contract, I believe.” Joe put his hand back to see if the letter was safe. “Father thinks— Oh, Roy, it’s gone!”

“Gone? What?”

“The letter! I’ve dropped it somewhere!”

In the excitement Joe leaped to his feet and gazed about him and down along the road as far as his eye could reach. The envelope was not in sight.

“We’ll have to go back,” he said, with a disturbed look on his face. “Hurry up.”

“You must have dropped it when we got that drink,” said Roy. “I hope you get it back.”

“I must get it back. I think there was a plan in it which cost the owner fifty or a hundred dollars,” returned Joe.

CHAPTER XXX.

A LETTER AND A SNAKE.

OUR hero was already on his bicycle, and Roy had no cause to complain about the time made in returning to the vicinity of the old well. As a matter of fact, Joe fairly flew down the highway and he had all he could do to keep up with him.

The spot reached, they dismounted and commenced a search which lasted nearly an hour, covering every foot of ground for fifty feet around. They even lit a bit of paper and threw it into the well, that they might see if the envelope had dropped into the water. It was all of no avail; the communication could not be found.

Joe walked back to the road with a very white face. What would his father say to this?

“It’s too bad,” said Roy Crossley. “Let us ride back slowly to where we rested. It may be lying somewhere on the way.”

“I ought to have put it into an inside pocket, Roy. Father cautioned me to do that, but I forgot.”

On this point Roy could give no comfort, and in silence they turned forward again, our hero on one side of the road and his chum on the other.

They had almost reached the spot where they had been resting when Roy uttered a shout.

“There is the letter, over by that rock!”

He pointed to one side. Both looked in that direction, and an instant later gave a yell of fright.

“A snake! And on the letter!”

It was true. A brown reptile nearly three feet long had come out of his hole to sun himself, and his head rested directly upon the communication.

Both boys rode past and then dismounted. As they did this the snake gave an angry hiss which made them retreat in double-quick time. Joe picked up a stone and Roy a stick.

For a moment the reptile held its ground, and the lads thought they would have a lively and decidedly unwelcome fight. But as the stick and stone were raised the snake turned and like a flash disappeared behind a rock.

Joe’s heart beat loudly as he picked up the letter, and he brushed it off with great care and even then handled it gingerly. Both boys were so preoccupied that they did not notice the presence of a little girl who had walked up.

“Why didn’t you kill the snake?” she remarked. “I wouldn’t have let him get away from me.”

“It’s easy to talk,” returned Roy coldly. “A snake is not a nice thing to handle.”

“Huh! My little brother killed one yesterday twice as long as that,” she replied disdainfully.

“Can’t you tell us how far we are from Mr. Franshaw’s house?” asked Joe, to change the subject.

The girl told them, glancing curiously at the letter in the meantime. “Is that for him?” she questioned.

“Yes.”

“Well, if you want to catch him this morning you’ll have to hurry. I just came from his place and I heard him tell his man that he was going to start for Northfield in a little while, and by what he said I guess he’s going to stay there a couple of days.”

“Then we will have to hurry,” replied Joe. “I am much obliged to you for the information,” he added.

“I’ve never been out Northfield way,” observed Roy, as they pedaled along as rapidly as possible. “Do you know anything about the roads?”

“I was up there once in a wagon,” replied our hero. “I hope we catch Mr. Franshaw before he starts.”

They went through the town of Independence at a rapid rate—so rapid Roy was afraid they might be arrested for fast riding—and struck out on the side road leading to Mr. Franshaw’s residence. The two miles were quickly covered, and, dismounting, Joe hurried up to a side door and knocked loudly. There was no response.

A man who had seen them from a near-by field approached. He proved to be one of Mr. Franshaw’s hired men.

“Yes, Mr. Franshaw left for Northfield about half an hour ago,” he said, in reply to Joe’s question.

“On foot?”

“Oh, no, he had a team with some furniture he sold to a man in Northfield. You see since his wife died he ain’t got no use for the stuff, and he’s thinking of selling out altogether and moving down to Greenpoint.”

“Perhaps we can catch him if he has a heavy load,” remarked Roy. “Let’s try it.”

“We can catch him at Northfield anyway; that is, if the roads are good enough for bicycling,” returned our hero. “Which way did he go?”

“Right straight down this road till you come to the creek,” said the hired man. “Then take the road to the left until you get around the hill, and then take the road to the right. You might catch him if you are good riders.”

“And the roads?”

“Well, they ain’t the best, but I reckon they’re good enough. You may have to do a bit of walking here and there.”

“Come ahead!” cried Joe, and in a second more he was off, with Roy in his wake. A turn of the road and Mr. Franshaw’s residence was left behind, and they were started on a journey destined to be full of excitement and surprises.

On and on they sped as fast as the country road would admit, gradually climbing the hill to the other side. At the creek they took the turn the man had mentioned and pedaled along a smooth way lined on either side with dense woods.

“Hullo, look!” cried Roy, who had spurted ahead. “A gypsy camp!”

“Sure enough, Roy! They have four wagons, and look, at least a dozen horses.”

“Rather a tough-looking crowd, ain’t they?”

Joe agreed that they were. There were six men visible, lying around a flat rock, smoking and playing cards. Besides the men there were two women, who were washing clothes and cooking, and half a dozen ragged and dirty children. The children shouted at them, but they paid no attention as they swept past.

“How folks can live in that style gets me,” commented Roy. “Ugh! those men looked like the brigands of Italy you see pictured in books.”

“I guess they are not above stealing chickens, and even horses,” replied Joe. “But hurry up, for if I am not mistaken it is going to rain before night. Don’t you notice how close it is and how glary the sunshine is getting?”

The second turn was reached and before them was a straight stretch of a mile and a half. Looking far ahead they saw a wagon lumbering along at a lively gait.

“That must be Mr. Franshaw’s,” ejaculated Joe. “Hurry up and see!”

He spurted and so did Roy, and the wagon was reached before it had proceeded a quarter of a mile. True enough it belonged to the man they were seeking, who sat on the seat calmly smoking his brier root pipe.

“Hullo, Joe Johnson, what are you doing away up here?” he cried, as the youth came alongside. “A pretty long and rough ride from your home.”

“I’ve got a letter for you,” answered our hero. “Here it is. I was at your home and your man directed me how I could follow you.”

The team was stopped and the communication examined.

“I’m mighty glad you came after me,” said Mr. Franshaw. “I wouldn’t want to have missed this for a good deal. I was going to stay at Northfield until to-morrow, but I’ll come back as soon as this furniture is delivered. You can tell your father I’ll be on hand and will take up with that offer if Mr. Burns indorses the notes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if you boys want to get home with dry backs I advise you to hurry up. It’s going to storm in a little while,” added the man.

He whipped up his team and left them where they had dismounted. Joe was about to follow Roy in mounting when he suddenly changed his mind.

“I’m as hungry as a bear,” he said. “Let us tackle our lunch first. That will rest us and we can make home in a jiffy, for it’s more down hill than up.”

Roy, too, was hungry, and readily agreed to his companion’s plan. They found a convenient resting place, near a spring where they could obtain water, and soon both were munching the sandwiches and cake with which their folks had provided them.

It felt so agreeable to rest and to eat that they spent a much longer time in the spot than at first anticipated, and it was not until a low rumble of distant thunder startled them that they both leaped to their feet.

“The storm is coming up!” cried Roy. “See how black the sky is getting! Come on, there’s not a minute to waste!”

He crammed the last of his cake into his mouth and leaped into the saddle. Joe did the same, and away they went in the direction of the creek and the gypsy camp beyond.

Scarcely a quarter of a mile had been covered when it began to rain. At first the drops came down scatteringly, but soon a perfect deluge seemed to descend upon them.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE GYPSY CAMP.

“WE must find shelter or we’ll be soaked to the skin,” said Roy Crossley. “Do you see any kind of a building?”

“No,” said Joe. “Not a blessed thing in sight. But if I remember rightly there was an old barn near that gypsy camp.”

They passed the creek and made the turn toward the gypsy’s squatting place, but no barn came to view. By this time their sweaters were pretty wet and the rain was running over their caps and down their necks in anything but a comfortable fashion.

“My gracious, but this is rough,” commented our hero dismally. “If we could——”

He got no further, for his front wheel had slipped on the wet road. There was a twist and a wobble, and over he went. Roy, directly behind, had to leap off to save himself.

“Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously, as Joe arose painfully.

“Yes, I scraped my knee,” gasped our hero. “Riding home with it is going to be no picnic.”

“Are you sure you can ride?”

“I’ll try, anyway.”

Joe mounted and went a short distance—bringing them into sight of the gypsy’s camp. He gave a groan and dropped rather than stepped to the road.

“I can’t do it. If that barn was handy——”

“Here’s the gypsy camp,” began Roy. “I suppose they’ll take us in if we pay them.”

“I don’t want to go among those dirty creatures,” said Joe, with a shrug of disgust. “They might—here come three of the men now!”

He was right. Through the rain the gypsies had seen his mishap, and now they came forward with various offers of assistance.

“Come in the wagon out o’ the wet,” said one, who appeared to be something of a leader. “We’ll give you some liniment for your knee.”

The boys did not wish to accept, but the three gypsies insisted, and against their will they went along, Roy trundling the machines and the gypsy leader catching Joe by the arm to make walking on the injured limb easier.

The wagon into which they were invited was large enough to hold a score of persons, but it had such an untidy look and smelled so strongly of musty bedding and tobacco smoke it nearly made both of the boys sick.

“You can put the bicycles under the wagon,” said one of the gypsies. “Here is the medicine for your knee,” and he brought out a black bottle which smelled of turpentine.

Two of the gypsies entered the wagon with the boys, while the third hurried off to join the men in another shelter. Somewhat against his wishes, our hero’s knee was bathed. The stuff put on burned considerably, and it is doubtful if it did any good. While the bathing was going on the gypsies talked loudly and continuously, and after it was over one of the men offered both a drink from a pocket flask, which they promptly declined.

“Wont drink, eh,” said the man. “You don’t know what is good.” He gave a coarse laugh. “Where are you from?”

Roy told them, and the two men exchanged glances. It was still raining as hard as ever, and the second man proposed that they play a game of cards to while away the time.

“I don’t know how to play,” said Roy.

“Then I’ll tell your fortunes,” said the gypsy, and immediately set to work, telling them of a dozen wonderful things which were to happen to both of them in the course of their lives.

“You are both going to meet with a loss soon,” said the man presently. “Two bicycle riders from Greenpoint are going to play a dirty trick on you. One of the men is a tall fellow, with a squint in his eye; the other is short and stout. Look out for them, they are your enemies.”

The man spoke earnestly, looking them squarely in the face as he addressed them. Had they believed at all in fortune telling they might have imagined that there was some truth in his statement. As it was their faces took on a perplexed look, at which the man winked at his companion on the sly.

An hour or more was spent in the wagon, and then the sudden shower began to let up. Joe had been rubbing his knee and now declared himself able to proceed. But the gypsies insisted that they wait until the road had dried up a bit.

“There is no use to hurry,” said one. “We are not charging you for staying here.”

“No, nor for telling our fortunes,” put in the other. “Make yourselves at home until the sun shines again.”

“I’m afraid it won’t shine much before it sets,” said Roy. “If your knee will permit, we’ll start now,” he added to Joe. “As it is, we won’t get home until dark.”

He was close to the back flap, and throwing it aside, leaped out. Our hero followed more carefully, and both looked around for their bicycles. The machines were gone!

“What did you do with our wheels?” asked Roy of the gypsies.

“Why, you placed ’em under the wagon,” was the reply.

“They are gone,” burst out Joe. “Did that other man take them away?”

“I guess not. I’ll ask him.”

The gypsy called the leader who had left them when they had entered the wagon. He shook his head, declaring he had not seen the bicycles since Roy had placed them under the wagon.

“Well, some one has taken them, sure,” said our hero, and he eyed the gypsies sharply.

“Ah, I have it!” cried the man who had told their fortunes. “Did I not read it on the cards! Those two bicyclists from Greenpoint, the man with the squint and the short, stout man. They have——”

“Do you think I believe any such stuff!” interrupted Joe. “Not much! You have our wheels, and I want you to produce them.”

At this all of the gypsies who had gathered around looked dark.

“We are not thieves, young fellow,” said the leader. “It was your business to look after your machines, not ours. Now clear out about your business. We did all we could for you and it’s small thanks we are getting for it.”

The gypsies looked so angry and aggressive that both lads were forced to retreat. But they only went as far as the road, as the gypsies made no attempt to follow them.

“This is a nice fix,” grumbled Roy. “They have our wheels, I’m certain of that.”

“So am I. The question is, how are we going to get our bicycles back?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Where do you suppose they have put them?”

“Perhaps in their tent, or in one of the other wagons.”

“They won’t dare keep them there.”

“Of course not. At the first chance they’ll ride off on them and sell them in some city, after changing their looks and numbers.”

“What had we better do?”

“Pretend to go away, and then watch them,” said Joe.

This advice was followed out. They walked along the road around a bend, then dove into the woods, coming up in the rear of the gypsy camp.

For some time they saw nothing unusual. The gypsies came up to the front of their tent and commenced to eat around a newly made campfire. The meal over one of the members began to harness a pair of horses to one of the wagons.

“That wagon must have our machines in it,” cried Roy. “I wonder where he is going?”

“Hark,” said our hero. “I hear a horse and wagon on the road!”

“Run out and see if it is any one who will help us,” cried his chum, and Joe ran out—to behold Mr. Franshaw, swinging along with his empty wagon at a lively gait.

The youth drove into the woods again, but by running at a rate which hurt his knee not a little, he managed to reach the bend below the camp just as Mr. Franshaw was passing.

The man was stopped and matters were explained to him. Of course he readily agreed to help the boys all he could.

“But they are a dozen to us three,” he added.

“So we must use strategy.”

The gypsy wagon was now coming out on the road. It was a boxlike affair, without a cover, and in the bottom rested some objects covered with a piece of canvas.

“He’s got your machines in that sure,” said Mr. Franshaw. “Go for your friend and we’ll follow that wagon.”

Joe ran into the woods once more and summoned Roy. Both boys secreted themselves in Mr. Franshaw’s turnout, which was then headed in the direction the gypsy’s wagon had taken.

Scarcely half a mile was covered when the gypsy discovered that he was being pursued. He whipped his horse, and a lively race began, which for a long while was a case of nip-and-tuck.

“We are gaining!” cried Roy at last. “Can’t you make him go faster, Mr. Franshaw?”

“I’ll try. Go it, Billy! Git alang there!”

And Billy did “git alang,” until the gypsy’s turnout was all but overhauled. Seeing he could not escape, the man slowed down.

“We want our wheels,” demanded Joe sharply.

“Who are you talkin’ to?” returned the fellow with a blank look, but without ceremony Roy leaped from one wagon to the other, and pulled the cover from the two bicycles.

“Hang the luck!” growled the gypsy and sprang into the road. But Mr. Franshaw was after him, and struck him with the butt of his whip. Then Joe and Roy leaped in, and after a tough struggle, lasting fully ten minutes, the gypsy was overpowered, made to enter Mr. Franshaw’s wagon and bound up with some bits of harness. Roy remained with the prisoner, while Joe undertook the task of driving the prisoner’s turnout; and in this fashion they journeyed to the nearest police station.

Here the gypsy was held for trial, and in the meantime some officers went after the other gypsies, but failed to catch them, as they had left for parts unknown.

It was late when the two boys arrived home to tell their story, and the excitement through which they had passed was sufficient to last them for some time to come.

CHAPTER XXXII.

AN ACCIDENT ON THE WHEEL.

THE days flew by, and business at the Johnsons’ store continued to grow better and better, until the entire family felt that they were on the high road to prosperity.

One day Dan Huxley, who played third base on the Rushers, came to our hero and asked him to take a drive out in the country to an uncle’s farm for some potatoes.

The day was a fine one and both boys felt in excellent spirits.

Just on the outskirts of the city they ran across Ralph Riley, a bicycle rider from Greenpoint, who was spinning along on his wheel.

“I’ll race you!” cried Ralph.

“Done,” said Dan, and the race started.

The horse was pulling a pretty heavy wagon, so he could not go very fast.

Yet for a quarter of a mile it was nip-and-tuck between the horse and the machine.

Then Ralph drew ahead.

“You’re beat!” he cried, as he went on.

“I would like to have my machine and race you,” said Joe with a laugh.

Just ahead of them the road made a turn around a clump of trees.

On and on sped Ralph, with the wagon not far behind him.

As he went around the curve his bicycle tipped too far in and he slipped down on the ground.

“Whoa!” yelled Dan, as he tried to bring his horse to a stand.

He did not wish to run over Ralph, who had rolled over on his back.

Scarcely had Dan spoken when Joe let out a cry of horror. A spanking team attached to a heavy coach was coming from the other direction. The coach was whirling along at a lively gait, with the driver more than half asleep on the box.

“Stop! Stop!” cried Joe, but the sleepy coachman paid no attention.

“Stop!” yelled Dan. “Ralph, get up!”

Realizing his danger, Ralph Riley attempted to do so. But his leg caught in his machine and down he went again.

On and on came the heavy coach. In another moment the horses and all would pass directly over the prostrate boy’s body.

“Stop your team!” screamed our hero, and leaped to the ground.

As quick as lightning he sprang over Ralph’s body and caught the nearest horse of the oncoming team by the bridle.

It was a daring thing to do, for should he fall under the horses, Joe would be as bad off, if not worse, than his companion.

Yet he did not mean to fall.

The coach swerved to one side and the driver was almost shaken from his lofty seat.

This aroused him and he clutched at the reins.

“Phat are yez up to?” he bawled out.

“Stop your team!” cried our hero. “Don’t you see where you are going?”

“Be hivins!” howled the driver, and pulled up the team in double-quick order.

Another step and Ralph would have been trampled under foot.

As it was, one of the horses stepped on one wheel of the bicycle, bending several of the steel spokes.

Ralph crawled to his feet and got out of the way as best he could.

Then Joe let go the horse’s head.

“Are ye hurted?” asked the driver anxiously of Ralph.

“No, but my machine is,” replied the boy.

“Oi can’t help that! Git up, Billy! Git up, Nora!”

He attempted to go on with his team. But Dan drew up across the road so he could not pass.

“You settle for that broken wheel first,” said Dan.

“To be sure he will!” cried Ralph.

“It’s not me fault,” said the driver of the coach stubbornly.

“It is.”

“’Tis not. Now let me go past!”

Dan would not budge, and added to this Ralph ran up in front of the coach, and so did Joe.

At once the Irishman grew angry and reached for his long whip.

“Oi’ll show yez a thing or two!” he howled, and made a crack at Ralph with his whip, but the boy leaped out of reach.

“Here, don’t you hit my friend!” cried Joe.

In his pocket he had an apple, which was large and rather hard.

He pulled out the apple, and, just as the coachman made another strike at Ralph, he let drive.

The coachman received the apple in one eye, and he let out a terrific yell and dropped his whip, which Ralph promptly picked up.

Swish! Swish!

Around the driver’s legs wound the whip end, and the Irishman danced on the seat with pain.

“There, now, we’ll call it square!” cried Ralph, as he threw the whip into the empty coach. “Now go about your business, and see you don’t drive over anybody else.”

The coachman was frantic, but before he could do anything Dan and Joe drove past him, and Ralph got on his battered wheel and rode on.

At a crossroads they came to a blacksmith shop, and here Ralph stopped off to have the spokes of his wheel straightened.

Joe and Dan continued on their way until the latter’s uncle’s place was reached. Here the two boys had a right royal time in the orchards, picking and eating fruit.

Dan’s uncle was with them, and while out in the orchard was called off for a little while by a neighbor.

“There’s a fine apple tree,” said Dan. “Supposing I climb up and shake down a few of those choice apples?”

“Go ahead, and do as you please,” said our hero. “I must confess, as far as I am concerned, I don’t want much more fruit.”

“Pretty full, eh?”

“Exactly.”

Nevertheless, Joe gave Dan a boost up the tree.

There were some particularly fine apples on the topmost limbs, and these Dan was bent on securing.

Up and up he went, while our hero took it easy on the grass at the foot of the tree.

Dan had just reached the top of the tree and secured some choice fruit, when a wild cry rang out, coming from the direction of the farmhouse.

“Help! Samuel, come here, quick!”

It was Dan’s aunt calling for her husband.

“What’s up?” yelled Dan from the tree.

“Your aunt wants help!” cried Joe. “I’ll go up and see what’s wrong.”

And away he bounded as fast as his swift feet would carry him.

As he came in sight of the farmhouse a thrilling sight met his gaze.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A TRAMP’S DOWNFALL.

DAN’S aunt was having a desperate fight with a burly tramp, who, after being given a hearty dinner, had insisted on having money.

Mrs. Parks—that was the lady’s name—refused to give him the cash, and at once the tramp grew abusive.

The fellow was none other than Henderson, who had helped assault Joe at the old coal mine.

“I’ll help myself,” he said, and tried to go into the house.

Then the lady screamed for help.

“Ain’t no use ter call,” said the tramp. “Yer husband is up the road a good step. I seed him go away.”

“You wretch! Get out of the house,” stormed Mrs. Parks.

“I will—when I have what I want,” was the cool reply of the knight of the road.

He thought with only a woman around he could do as he pleased.

He tried to throw the lady into a closet, and a desperate struggle ensued.

In the midst of it Joe arrived and took in the situation at a glance.

Our hero looked around for some weapon and espied a sickle lying on the cistern-top.

“Let up there!” he cried, as he picked up the sickle. “Let up, or I’ll cut you with this!”

And he flourished the sickle dangerously close to the tramp’s head.

Henderson turned pale under his dirt when he saw our hero with the sharp-edged sickle.

“Don’t cut me!” he shrieked.

“Then let up on Mrs. Parks,” shouted Joe.

“I wasn’t doin’ nuthin’.”

“I know better.”

“He wanted to rob us,” put in the lady.

“Never stole a thing in my life,” said the tramp. “Ter tell the truth, I’m a bit queer at times in me upper story.” And he tapped his forehead.

Our hero saw he was lying.

“Hold him until my husband gets back,” suggested Mrs. Parks.

“I will.”

On hearing this the tramp attempted to run away, but Joe promptly tripped him up.

At this moment Dan came running up, having come down out of the apple tree as fast as possible.

Now he saw another against him, Henderson was more anxious than ever to get away.

“Lemme go, I am out o’ me head,” he moaned. “De hot sun affected me.”

“Did it?” said Joe.

As he spoke he leaped back of the tramp and kicked the cover off of the cistern.

Dan saw what he was up to and smiled.

“Yes, me head is affected by the heat,” went on the tramp.

“Then we’ll cool it for you,” cried Joe.

At a signal to Dan to help him he rushed at the dirty fellow.

The lads caught the fellow by the collar and dragged him to the cistern.

In vain Henderson struggled to free himself. They backed him to the opening and gave him a sudden push.

He sat down, doubled up like a jackknife and disappeared with a loud splash.

“Whow! whow! Let me out! I’ll be drowned.”

In this fashion the tramp spluttered as soon as he could get his head above water.

When he stood up the cistern water was just up to his neck and he chattered from cold.

“Stay in there and cool off,” cried Joe.

And he and Dan kept watch over him while Mrs. Parks went off for Mr. Parks.

The tramp begged piteously to be allowed his liberty, but the boys were obdurate.

In a little while Mr. Parks came running in.

“One of them pesky tramps, eh,” he said. “All right, I’ll fix him!” He ran to the barn and got his whip.

“Now climb out and I’ll give you something to make you hustle,” he said.

Henderson lost no time in trying to get out of the cistern.

As soon as his shoulders showed above ground old Parks began to thrash him with the whip. He kept this up until the tramp was ready to run off.

“Now, clear out,” he exclaimed. “And if I ever see you around this way again I’ll give you a dose of buckshot.”

Henderson did not wait to reply.

Dripping wet and aching in every limb he hobbled off.

None of those present ever saw him again.

Mrs. Parks was much pleased with what Joe had done, and she presented our hero with a choice basket of fruit to take home.

An hour later found Dan and our hero on the way back to Lockport.

At the blacksmith shop they learned that Ralph had long since gone away on his wheel, which had been made as good as ever.

After this adventure with the coach and with the tramp nothing of especial interest happened for a long while to come.

Jee kept training himself on his wheel while Mr. Johnson and Paul ran the store and matters went very well all around.

Joe would have gone into the store with his brother, but the whole family realized that it was the lad’s riding and acquaintanceship with wheelmen that brought in a good share of the trade. Even while on the road Joe managed to sell several bicycles and all at a good profit.

And thus the fall passed and winter came on, and with the advent of snow came the time when Joe Johnson had an adventure he never forgot—an adventure as novel as it was thrilling.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

LOST IN THE SNOW.

“JOE! Joe!” called Mrs. Johnson, as she entered her son’s bedroom, about twelve o’clock one bitter cold night in January. “Wake up. Your father is very sick.”

“What’s the matter? Father sick?” asked the boy, springing up.

“Yes, he has taken cold, and complains of heart cramps. I do not know what to do. I have tried several things, but none of them seem to do any good.”

“Shall I go for Dr. Weston?”

“It would be best to have him. But it is awful cold out, and is snowing heavily.”

“I won’t mind that, mother. I’ll hurry on my clothes and start at once.”

“Do, then. Tell the doctor he must come at once.”

“I will.”

Having dressed himself in an incredibly short time, Joe put on his overcoat, wound a tippet around his neck and head, donned his hat and left the house. Dr. Weston lived on the other side of Lockport, and he had a mile’s journey to reach the residence.

As we have said, it was bitter cold. The lazy, generous flakes whirled down to such a degree that nothing could be seen twenty feet ahead. Undaunted by this, however, our hero started courageously, and was soon well on his way, leaving behind him dog-trot footprints in the eight inches of snow that covered the ground.

But running as fast as he could it was full half an hour before he reached the doctor’s residence. He was thoroughly tired by the run, and when he rang the bell he sat down on the piazza railing to rest himself.

“Who’s there?” came through the speaking tube, in the familiar voice of the doctor.

“It is I—Joe Johnson,” replied the boy.

“What do you want?”

“My father is very sick. Mother would like you to come and attend him at once.”

“What is the matter?”

“I don’t know exactly. He has a heavy cold, and complains of cramps in the heart.”

“Then I’ll hurry as fast as I can. If you will wait ten minutes you can ride back with me in my cutter.”

Now, undoubtedly, this would have been the best thing for Joe to do. But, like many another person in a similar situation, ten minutes seemed to him like an age.

“No, doctor, I am much obliged,” he replied. “I’ll start at once and let mother know that you are coming.”

“Very well, then,” answered Dr. Weston.

Having rested himself, our hero started on the return. It was much colder now than it had been, and the soft flakes had given way to fine, hard particles which the wind drove piercingly into his face. The snow, too, lay deeper, and rendered his progress slow. In half an hour he found himself, thoroughly exhausted, only halfway home.

“I wish I had accepted the doctor’s invitation to ride,” he said to himself, as he stood still for a moment, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t seem to be returning as fast as I came. I wonder if the doctor is behind me.”

Joe listened attentively, but no sound broke the stillness. Occasionally a blast of wind swept through the trees, but that was all.

“It won’t do for me to stand here,” he continued. “I would freeze to death in five minutes,” and he staggered on through the blinding snow.

But to walk through nearly a foot of snow is no easy task, and with the cutting north wind blowing directly in the face it is well-nigh impossible.

Our hero grew colder and colder; it seemed to him that he had never been so cold before. Several times he missed the way, too, and once, when he stumbled, he rolled down into a hollow.

This frightened him, and he tried his best to see ahead and keep in the right way.

But now a drowsy sensation began to steal over him, and instead of being cold his body began to become of a sluggish warmth. His head sank down on his breast, and he felt, oh! so sleepy.

“I’ll sit down under the tree over there and rest for a moment,” he thought, and started to carry out his idea.

Before he could take three steps he sank to the ground. He attempted to rise, but found he had not the strength to do so. The awful truth rushed to his mind:

“I am to die in the snow!”

Those were the last words Joe uttered.

The wind blew and the snow came down faster than ever. It took but a few moments to cover him, and then no one would have suspected that under that unbroken sheet of white lay a human form.

It was nearly a quarter of an hour after Joe had summoned him that Dr. Weston entered the cutter which his colored boy brought from the stable, and started on his way to the Johnson home.

He was well wrapped up in an immense fur overcoat and a couple of buffalo robes, and nothing but a small part of his face could be seen as he grasped the reins and guided his faithful horse, a magnificent bay, down the side street and out of the town.

“Come, Hero, get up,” he called. “We must hurry, or we may be too late. Faster.”

And Hero, being an intelligent horse, understood what was said and began to increase his speed.

Soon they had left the town and were well on the road. Here the fury of the snowstorm was more felt, and the doctor, knowing that Hero would keep his gait, rode without urging, settled himself deep in the robes, and was soon lost in reverie.

His meditations were interrupted by the sudden stop of Hero. He was thrown forward against the dashboard, and the shock brought him to his full senses in an instant.

“Hello! What is the matter now?” he said to himself. “I wish I could see ahead.”

But that was impossible. The blinding snow hid everything from view.

“It’s no use. I must go on. Get up, Hero.”

Hero would not get up. He only pawed the ground with his hoofs, and gave a loud snort.

“Something must be the matter,” the doctor continued. “Perhaps there is something the matter with the harness. I suppose I will have to jump out and see.”

Dr. Weston crawled from the robes, and carried out his idea. A careful examination convinced him that the entire running gear and all was in perfect order.

“I can’t see what the matter is. Can’t you tell me, Hero?”

Hero gave another snort. Then, greatly to the doctor’s surprise, pawed the snow carefully away in front of him, and lowering his head, grasped a dark object by his teeth and raised it up. Dr. Weston uttered an exclamation:

“Great Cæsar! It’s Joe Johnson!”

In the twinkle of an eye he placed the boy’s form in the cutter. Then Hero was set to the quickest of trots. The animal, in five minutes, brought the cutter to the Johnson’s cottage.

Here Joe was taken in, and after hard work resuscitated. Mr. Johnson’s sickness proved but slight, and the doctor turned all his attention to the half-frozen boy.

It took a week for our hero to recover. When he came downstairs for the first time, and sat by the fire, he said:

“It was queer, mother: just like going to sleep.”

“It was a sleep, Joe,” replied his mother; and as she turned away she continued to herself: “And had it not been for intelligent Hero it would have been the sleep of death!”

The winter passed and spring came on, and with the warmer weather Joe’s thoughts turned again to bicycling. An international contest had been arranged and this our hero determined to enter.

Yet before this great race something occurred which showed more than anything else what a great rate of speed Joe could make on his wheel when the occasion demanded.

CHAPTER XXXV.

SAVING THE TOWN.

FOR some time past the forest fires had been raging heavily in the dense growth to the northwest of Lockport, but as they were kept pretty fully under control but little apprehension was felt for the safety of the town.

Guards were stationed at various points both night and day, and they gave the alarm whenever the fire gained in one direction or another.

“It is a lucky thing that no fire has started in Huffman’s woods,” thought Joe as he rode home one evening after an unusually hard day’s training on his wheel. “If it did, and the wind should be just right, Greenpoint would suffer a good deal, unless every one was on guard and ready to fight it off. It’s a pity it doesn’t rain. Only half an inch of water in seven weeks is not enough to count.”

On the day following it grew unusually close and sultry. There was a breeze from the north, too, but it carried with it nothing that was in the slightest degree refreshing.

“I must take a spin along the Forest Turnpike,” said our hero to himself. “It ought to be cool along there and down in the Hollow. I can’t stand it to wheel home along the old dusty road in this awful heat.”

So, instead of turning to the west, he started off almost northwest, and was soon speeding along under the shade of the immense pine and other trees through which the Forest Turnpike had been cut four years previous.

When he reached the upper end of the turnpike, where the Hollow road branched off, he found a nice shady spot, near a tiny brook, and, dismounting, threw himself on the grass and pine boughs to rest.

He was over nine miles from home, and it was growing late, but he could not resist the temptation to linger and take it easy.

“The coolest spot in the country, I really believe,” he thought lazily, as he threw his head and closed his tired eyes. “What a difference between this and that hot store of ours.”

Joe lay quiet for perhaps ten minutes, then he gave a long sniff—another—and sprang up with a start.

What was that odor which was coming faintly to him from the woods on the other side of the brook? It smelled suspiciously like burning pine!

He waited another moment and then gave several more sniffs. He was right, it was something burning!

“Huffman’s woods must be on fire!” he thought, and immediately a worried look crossed his handsome face. He thoroughly understood the danger which the numerous forest fires brought.

The wind began to blow through the trees and brush, and in another minute the smoke came drifting overhead and through the upper branches. Joe reached for his machine and started to mount.

“I might as well be getting along,” he said, half, aloud. “There is no telling how far that fire, wherever it is, may reach before it is checked, it’s so awful hot to-day. If only the rain——”

Joe got no further. There was a strange roaring which reached him from a distance, followed by a sudden rush of wind, and then—he could scarcely believe his eyes—several smoking and burning brands fell near him and further on up the road.

“The fire is coming this way just as fast as ever it can,” he gasped. “My stars! Look at that! The whole woods will be afire in another ten minutes! I must go and give warning before it is too late!”

In a twinkle he was on his machine and riding along the Hollow road at topmost speed, his form bent over the handles and every ounce of muscle put on the flying pedals. His hat blew off, but he paid no heed to this, his one thought being to outride the oncoming fire and warn Greenpoint people of their danger.

Ahead of him was a steep hill, six hundred feet long, and up this he pushed desperately, the smoke and burning brands sweeping down on all sides of him. Once a hot cinder fell upon his neck, burning him severely and causing him to utter a sharp cry of pain. But not a second was lost; he knew only too well the value of every iota of time.

And now the burning brands, flying hither and thither, set fire to the brush on either side of the narrow road, and it was as if Joe was riding through two walls of flames. The air grew stifling and he could scarcely breathe.

“If I was only to the top of the hill I could coast down the other side,” he muttered to himself. “But it’s a good two hundred feet off yet, and I don’t seem to be getting ahead at all.”

He endeavored to increase his speed, and the very desperateness of the situation lent him extra strength. Up and up he went, avoiding the rough stones as best he could, and yet not daring to turn much from a direct course.

Joe had almost gained the top of the hill when there came a furious blast of wind, filled with smoke and burning branches and leaves, that struck him directly in the face. Our hero bent back involuntarily and his bicycle came very nearly to a standstill. It looked as if he would be stopped at the very moment when the worst of the danger was left behind.

But the brave youth recovered, and with one hand over his face and the other guiding his machine, he pushed manfully on until the crown of the hill was reached.

Here the smoke and flying branches were nearly as thick as below, but the awful up-hill struggle was past and ahead lay a downward road stretching for over a mile.

With a vigorous push on the pedals Joe started himself on the down grade and then placed both feet on the rests.

Like a rocket the bicycle shot down the incline, gathering speed at every yard. To Joe it was as if they were fairly flying past the trees and rocks which lined the way. More than once the machine struck a small stone and bounded upward, lifting him several inches out of the saddle. But he held on to the handles, feeling that it was not only a ride to save his own life, but also the lives of others.

When the foot of the hill was reached Joe found that he had left the smoke and the burning brands in his rear.

But the wind was still blowing his way—the way Greenpoint lay—and he realized that the fire was traveling fast behind him. Before the bicycle could slacken its speed he had his feet again on the pedals and was once more pushing on, determined to give the villagers all the time possible in which to save themselves and their goods.

At last, almost exhausted from his spurting, he came in sight of the first house, that in which Ralph Riley lived. The family were just gathering about the supper-table as he spun up to the horse block.

“The woods are on fire! Look out for yourselves!” he yelled, and, assured that his cry had been heard and understood, he dashed on.

Next came Deacon Quilby’s home—a low, rambling place, surrounded by an old-fashioned hedge. The deacon sat on the piazza, looking over a new hymn.

“Hullo! ridin’ most amazin’ fast—” he began when Joe cut him short.

“Huffman’s woods are in flames and the fire is coming this way. You had better get out, and quick, too, if you want to save your lives!”

And before the deacon could utter a word in reply he was out of sight again.

In three minutes more Greenpoint was reached, and, riding up and down the main street, Joe gave the alarm, which quickly spread. Men, women, and children came running from every house.

It did not take long to decide upon what to do. The possibilities of a fire reaching the place had often been discussed, and plans had been laid to fit all kinds of invasions.

“We’ll blow up the Bleekler cottage and Boren’s stable and the trees behind it,” said Seth Axtell, one of the leading merchants of Greenpoint. “And some of you can plow up as much of Cass’ field as you can. That ought to help us break the line of fire.”

“It will,” said one of the hotel-keepers. “And if the Jackson cottage and stable are gutted with water I think we’ll escape, although some one ought to be on guard at every building with tubs of water and a wet blanket.”

The men and boys went to work with a will, Joe among the rest. The women and girls, and even the children, did all they could to help, and the next half-hour was a busy one.

The buildings mentioned were blown up with gunpowder and dynamite, and all of the débris carried off, and a half-dozen plows soon turned up a large expanse of fresh earth. Water was also used as freely as the state of wells and cisterns would permit.

Before the half-hour was up the smoke and the flying sparks began to come toward the village, and inside of a quarter of an hour the entire forest to the north of Greenpoint was a mass of flames.

The lurid blaze made the darkness of the evening as bright as day, and this blaze lasted until the rising of the sun on the following morning. All night long the villagers worked without ceasing, and the morning found them still at their various posts of duty.

At eight o’clock it began to rain. At first the drops came down sparingly, but soon it began to pour steadily, and then every one knew that the terrible danger which had threatened them for fourteen hours was past.

The village was filled with a thick, choking smoke, but no one cared for this. All went round from place to place, congratulating each other and thanking God for their deliverance.

And Joe was not forgotten. It was Deacon Quilby who started the thanks which were given him before he returned home.

“If it hadn’t a-bin for Joe Johnson, Marthy and I would most likely hev been burnt up,” he said, with tears standing in his blue eyes. “He saved our lives, and I allow as he saved the village, too, God bless him!”

Stirring as they had been, the incidents attending the forest fires in the district did not stop Joe from training for the championship race.

He was out early and late, and often took Dick Burns and Ralph Riley along to pace him on a tandem which belonged to the former.

The race was to come off in Boston, so it would be necessary for Joe to leave home several days previous to the event.

“I must win—I simply must,” he said to himself more than a score of times.

All his friends came on to see the races, including Dick, his sister Carrie, Charley, Ralph Riley, Dan Hukley, Sam Anderson, and Carl Lathrop. Wilbur Rand was also present, having entered the ten-mile event.

Joe was very careful as to what he eat, for he knew his stomach must be in prime condition or he could not win.

Paul watched over his brother carefully nearly all the time.

There was five hundred dollars at stake, and the championship besides.

But unknown to them an enemy was at work.

It was Lemuel Akers, who had become a gambler and heavy drinker.

He heard how Joe was training, and set to work to defeat the youth he so hated.

“He made me an outcast,” reasoned Lemuel Akers to himself. “Now I’ll ruin his chance of winning, see if I don’t, and then—we’ll settle old scores.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

FOILING AN ENEMY.

IT took Lemuel Akers quite some time to perfect his plans against our hero, for he realized that he would have to move cautiously.

He kept out of sight of Joe and his friends, and none of them imagined the rascal was around.

Joe had taken up his quarters at a private house in the suburbs of the city.

Paul and Dick were constantly with him. The three ate, drank, and slept together.

Two days before the great race was to come off Joe retired a little earlier than usual, after a substantial supper.

There were a double and a single bed in the room. Joe and Paul occupied the double bed, while Dick slept in the other.

All went sound asleep, and the room became quiet excepting for the irregular breathing of the trio.

The window which overlooked a side addition to the house was half-open, to admit fresh air into the bedchamber.

A quarter of an hour went by, and then the form of a young man appeared on the roof outside of the window.

The midnight prowler was Lemuel Akers. His coat was buttoned tightly about his neck, his hat was pulled over his eyes, and a handkerchief was tied partly over his face.

As cautiously as a cat Lemuel approached the window and peered in.

“All asleep,” he thought. “Now to work, and then we will see whether Joe Johnson rides in that race or not.”

Without the slightest noise he entered the room.

From his coat pocket he took a small bottle, and pouring some of the liquor it contained on a sponge, he approached the bed upon which Dick Burns lay.

He applied the sponge to Dick’s nose.

The sponge contained chloroform, and soon Dick was overcome.

“Number one!” muttered Lemuel Akers to himself.

Paul Johnson was next approached.

As Lemuel was working with the sponge, Joe turned over on his other side.

As quick as a flash Akers tried to drop down out of sight. In making the move his foot struck a rocking chair, causing a sharp noise.

Instantly Joe sat up.

“Who is there?” he cried. “Dick, was that you?”

Of course, poor Dick could not answer. The question aroused Paul, who was but partly overcome.

“Wha—what’s the matter?” he stammered.

“Dick!” again called Joe.

He looked toward his chum. Dick lay there so still that he grew full of fear and leaped out of bed.

He almost landed on top of Lemuel Akers, who dodged and tried to find the door to the hallway.

“Stop! stop!” called out Joe, and he made a dash after the intruder.

He caught Lemuel by the arm.

The young rascal threw him off, but Joe was plucky, and, though not yet fully aroused, he again went after his enemy.

The two grappled by the door and rolled over and over on the floor, upsetting a table and a chair.

By this time Paul was able to come to Joe’s assistance.

“Let me go!” cried Akers.

“Lemuel Akers!” cried Joe, as he recognized the voice.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I won’t let you go. What are you doing in this room?”

“I—I got in by mistake.”

“Well, you won’t go out by mistake,” retorted Joe grimly. “Turn on the gas, Paul.”

By this time the entire household was in commotion. Several came running to the room, asking what was the matter.

“I’ve caught a thief, and worse,” said Joe. “Lie still, Lemuel.”

“Lemuel Akers!” cried Paul Johnson, after the gas was lit.

“What are you going to do with me?” whined Lemuel.

He was now thoroughly cowed and utterly miserable.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” replied Joe coldly.

While some saw to it that the rascal did not escape, Joe and others attended to Dick, who soon came around all right, although he suffered with a headache all of the next day.

Then Lemuel Akers was searched. The bottle of chloroform was taken from him, as was also another drug, something of a very harmful nature, which he had intended to administer to Joe.

“You are too much of a villain to be allowed at large,” said Joe. “Call an officer and have him taken to jail.”

“Never!” cried Lemuel, and breaking his bonds, he leaped out of the room and down a back stairs.

Joe had to wait to don his clothing. Then he went after the former bully of Lockport.

The yard gained he caught a brief vision of the bully on the top of the back fence.

“Come back!” he yelled.

“To the Old Nick with you, Joe Johnson!” returned the bad boy, and then dropped from the fence and started down a lane as fast as his feet would carry him.

In three seconds Joe was over the fence and in pursuit.

It was now a question of speed between the two.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A BATTLE ON A RUNAWAY CAR.

IF there was one thing which Lemuel Akers could do well it was run.

At school he had often bested all opponents in contests of this sort.

His legs were long and the way he placed one in front of the other was really remarkable.

Our hero, on the other hand, had but rarely tried his speed.

He could run at baseball or in a game of hare and hounds, but that was as far as it went.

But Joe’s wind was good, and his legs long, and these counted for a good deal.

Down the street went Lemuel, with our hero not over a hundred feet behind him.

The thoroughfare was a little less than a quarter of a mile in length. It came to an end at the side of the Charles River.

At the foot of the street’s dock rested a rowboat, and into this leaped the bully, and shoved himself well out.

When Joe reached the dock Lemuel was more than a hundred feet from shore.

“Not to-day, Joe Johnson!” called out Lemuel tauntingly. “Some other day. Good-day!”

And he started for the other side of the river.

Joe did not know what to do, for no other boat was at hand.

He watched Lemuel and saw the bully heading for the upper end of the river.

“He must be bound for somewhere,” thought Joe.

Although without a boat, our hero did not intend to give up the chase.

Leaving the edge of the dock he hid behind some lumber.

Soon he felt certain Lemuel was going up to a number of freight piers above.

“If I only had my wheel,” thought Joe.

Scarcely had this passed through his mind, when the sounds of hoofs reached his ears.

Soon a horse attached to a light wagon hove into sight.

On the seat of the wagon sat an old farmer.

In a few words Joe explained the situation.

“Will you drive me along the docks after that fellow?” he asked.

“Certainly. Anything to catch a thief.”

Joe sprang into the light wagon, and off they went for half a dozen blocks.

Then our hero ran down to another dock.

The boat was there, showing that Lemuel had already landed.

At first Joe could find no trace of the bully, but presently he struck a boy who had seen him.

“Went over toward the freight station,” said the urchin.

And to the station our hero took his way.

It was a busy yard. A dozen men were loading and unloading several trains of freight cars.

A number of empties were standing around and Joe began to peer into first one and then another.

Suddenly he came face to face with Lemuel.

The bully struck at him with a stick he had picked up.

Joe caught the blow on the arm and hit Lemuel on the left ear.

The bully rolled over on the car floor and clean out of the door on the opposite side.

At that instant the train backed still further into the yard.

By the time Joe could get to the other side of the track Lemuel was fifty feet away.

He was running toward a train of empties which were just leaving the freight station.

He caught the next to the last car.

At the top of his speed Joe came on.

He made a desperate effort and caught the rear railing of the last car.

It was hard work to pull himself up on the car.

Then he crossed the top and let himself down into the car Lemuel had entered.

The bully tried to fight him off, but a sudden curve in the track threw him down on his back.

The curve nearly caused our hero to lose his life. But he held fast, and a second later dropped in through the open side door and right on top of Akers.

A fierce fight ensued. The bully did his best to throw Joe from the car, and on the other hand our hero fought to bring the bully to submission.

At last Joe was successful. He struck Lemuel squarely between the eyes, and the bully fell down as if laid out with a club.

When he came to, Joe had tied his hands behind him with a handkerchief.

“Now, if you try any more funny work I’ll give you some more,” said our hero by way of a warning.

Finding himself a prisoner, Lemuel began to beg of our hero to let him go.

“It was only a joke,” he said.

“It’s a joke which will cost you dear,” replied our hero grimly.

“But look here,” went on the bully. “Let me go and I’ll make it worth your while?”

“Can’t do it.”

Then Lemuel offered our hero a big sum of money if allowed to escape.

It was his share of another robbery he had committed.

To tell the truth, Lemuel Akers had become a criminal of the first order.

“I’ll not let you go for all the gold in the neighborhood, and that ends it,” said Joe.

He had just spoken when there came a sudden jar and a jolt.

The car came to a standstill and then began to move backward.

It kept going backward faster and faster.

In alarm Joe looked out of the door.

Then he realized the truth.

The car and the one behind it had broken away from the rest of the train.

He and Lemuel were on a runaway car and going along a down grade at a speed of a mile a minute!

The bully saw that something was wrong and he grew pale on the instant.

“What’s the matter?” he gasped.

“The car has cut away from the main train and along with the rear one is running away,” replied our hero.

Then he sprang to Lemuel’s side.

“I’ll release your hands,” he went on, “so that you will have as good a chance as I for your life.”

He quickly untied the handkerchief.

The bully began to tremble from head to foot.

“Do you think we will be—be killed?” he gasped.

“I don’t know what will happen. Better stand by the door and be prepared to jump off.”

Joe stepped to one door, and, trembling in every limb, Lemuel went to the other.

On and on swept the cars down.

Down around a curve.

A switch appeared.

The cars were now running at a fearful rate of speed, and at the switch they both jumped the track.

There was a series of bumps, a jerk, and then came a fearful crash of splintering wood.

Joe went sailing through the air. He landed on his back in a pool of meadow water, and then knew no more.

When he came to his senses a dozen men were bending over him. He had been taken from the pool and placed on a number of coats spread out on the dry grass.

“He’s coming around now,” he heard somebody say, and then sat up and stared about him.

Near at hand lay both cars completely smashed.

The crowd was composed of railroad men and included the regular hands of the train.

It was some time before Joe could tell his story.

The crowd listened with interest.

A search was made for Lemuel Akers, and he was found lying but a short distance away, fearfully injured.

“Get a doctor!” he groaned. “Oh, my leg! Oh, my leg!”

An examination was made and the limb was found to be broken.

Both Joe and his enemy were placed on another train and taken back to Boston.

They were met by Joe’s friends and the police.

Joe was at once taken to his stopping place and everything was done to put him into condition again.

Lemuel was removed to a hospital. Later on he was charged with entering, and sent to prison for one year. Joe could have preferred a more serious charge, but he did not want to be too hard on the fellow.

“It’s the fault of his training as much as anything,” he said to Dick. “The whole Akers crowd are not worth their salt.”

“You are right, Joe,” replied Dick. Then he shuddered. “How thankful I am that we escaped.”

“So am I.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE RACE—GOOD-BY TO THE BICYCLISTS.

THE great race track was literally jammed with people.

And why not? Were not the very best riders in the country to compete there for supremacy?

Joe felt it was the event of his life.

“It is do or die!” he said to himself, almost desperately.

He wanted to win. It meant much to him—money, fame, and better business for the family; for if he won Joe was to become the representative of one of the largest wheel concerns in the State.

For two weeks he had been preparing for a race that was to last less than five minutes.

It was a good deal of preparation for such a short event.

The first race on the programme was that in which Wilbur Rand was one of the starters. Despite the fact that he had fine riders against him, Rand came in second, winning several hundred dollars.

Then came half a dozen other events.

“Joe! it’s time to go on!”

Dick had called him.

Was everything in apple-pie order?

Paul Johnson made a most minute examination.

“All O. K. as far as I can see, Joe,” he said. “And now, good luck to you. Show them your best.”

Out into the ring rode our hero.

Ten thousand voices greeted him, for a boy is always a favorite.

“The best-hearted rider that ever lived,” said many.

Each man rode around the track several times.

Then the starter called them together.

“Gentlemen, are you all ready?”

A silence so intense that one might have heard a pin drop followed.

Crack!

At the sound of the pistol seven bicyclists bent to their pedals and shot ahead like so many arrows from a single bow.

“A beautiful start!”

“Perfect! The best yet!”

“It’s going to be the closest race on the programme.”

“See them go, boys!”

And go they did, flashing by the spectators like an express train.

The first half-mile was passed.

Time for the leader, one minute two seconds.

Joe was the fourth man; time, one minute three seconds.

On and on they went.

A mile is covered.

Time for the leader, two minutes ten seconds.

Joe is now third; time, two minutes nineteen seconds.

On and on they flash, making each turn at breakneck speed.

The crowd goes frantic.

A mile and a half has been covered.

Time for the leader, three minutes thirty-one seconds—the terrific pace is telling.

But Joe is striving manfully for second place. Time for second and third men, three minutes thirty-four seconds.

And now the last half is on.

See them go! It is the great struggle of the giants.

Joe is riding as he never rode before.

But now what is he up to?

The crowd hold their breaths and then break out into a perfect roar.

He has not yet reached his limit.

He is spurting, faster than ever.

He fairly runs away from the second man.

Now he is crawling up behind the leader.

In vain the rider tries to shake him off.

Joe knows exactly what he is doing.

He keeps behind the leader until the very last stretch is reached.

And then?

Can that really be our hero who is bending down over the handle bar, his feet twinkling so rapidly that one can scarce see them?

Joe has let himself out to the full limit.

A wild, daring, marvelous rush, the like of which had never before been witnessed, and the leader is passed, and Joe comes over the tape the winner by three yards!

Time, four minutes forty-seven seconds!

The record has been completely smashed, and Joe is the champion two-mile bicycle rider of the country.

He goes on half a lap before he stops. Then, amid the applause of the immense crowd, he wheels around the track and into the outstretched arms of Paul, his father, and Dick Burns.

A hundred hands are thrust out to shake his own, but he is hurried to his dressing-room, there to be rubbed down and to receive medical attention if it be necessary.

“He’s the boy!” cries Charley Osborne.

“That’s right,” says Sam Anderson. “They can’t beat our Joe.”

“The nicest rider on the track,” is what Carl and Larry add.

Carrie Burns says but little, but the bright smile she gives Joe speaks volumes.

That evening our hero is dined and toasted, and on the following day the purse of five hundred dollars in gold is presented to him at a great public banquet.

Carrie Burns is there, as well as Joe’s relatives and friends, and Joe is the happiest young man on the face of the globe.

And here let us leave him—in the midst of his successes. He is settled down now, having married Carrie Burns, the sweetheart of his boyhood days. He is interested in a large bicycle manufacturing company and is rapidly growing rich. Let us wish him and all who surround him well.

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIVAL BICYCLISTS ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

THE RIVAL BICYCLISTS;

CHAPTER I. OFF ON THE WHEEL.

CHAPTER II. OUT OF A PERILOUS SITUATION.

CHAPTER III. JOE IS ACCUSED OF A CRIME.

CHAPTER IV. JOE DECLARES HIS INNOCENCE.

CHAPTER V. JOE’S FIRST RACE.

CHAPTER VI. PAUL JOHNSON’S PERIL.

CHAPTER VII. THE BULLY RECEIVES A LESSON.

CHAPTER VIII. A GALLANT SWIM.

CHAPTER IX. IN AN OLD COAL MINE.

CHAPTER X. THE MISSING BOY.

CHAPTER XI. A STIRRING FOOT RACE.

CHAPTER XII. JOE AND THE OLD APPLEWOMAN.

CHAPTER XIII. THE BASEBALL GAME.

CHAPTER XIV. FUN ON THE GREEN.

CHAPTER XV. AN ADVENTURE IN A CEMETERY.

CHAPTER XVI. AN ACCIDENT ON THE RAILROAD.

CHAPTER XVII. THE GOLD PIN.

CHAPTER XVIII. RACING A LOCOMOTIVE.

CHAPTER XIX. LEMUEL AKERS’ GREAT PERIL.

CHAPTER XX. JOE’S FATHER SAVES THE ENEMY.

CHAPTER XXI. AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER XXII. A TUG OF WAR.

CHAPTER XXIII. ANOTHER BALL GAME.

CHAPTER XXIV. AN AMUSING WAY TO CATCH A SNEAK.

CHAPTER XXV. JOE’S TRIP TO BOSTON.

CHAPTER XXVI. JOE’S BIG RACE.

CHAPTER XXVII. JOE’S DOUBLE ESCAPE.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE MAD DOG.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE BOY ON THE DERRICK ARM.

CHAPTER XXX. A LETTER AND A SNAKE.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE GYPSY CAMP.

CHAPTER XXXII. AN ACCIDENT ON THE WHEEL.

CHAPTER XXXIII. A TRAMP’S DOWNFALL.

CHAPTER XXXIV. LOST IN THE SNOW.

CHAPTER XXXV. SAVING THE TOWN.

CHAPTER XXXVI. FOILING AN ENEMY.

CHAPTER XXXVII. A BATTLE ON A RUNAWAY CAR.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE RACE—GOOD-BY TO THE BICYCLISTS.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE