Then past Frank's home, where his father waved his hat as he stood in the
doorway, warned of the coming of the squad by the rampant popping of the
motor-cycles; and after that the open country, where the northbound road
ran alongside the calm waters of Lake Camalot, now glistening in the
frosty air of an October morning.
Frank slowed up to allow of Jerry overtaking him, so that they might talk
as they covered the miles.
"There's the wagon ahead," he said.
"I had noticed it, and just beyond I thought I saw several fellows up on
the bank, perhaps Andy and his chums. It might be well for us to close
in and be ready to defend the wagon if necessary. And look out for any
sort of sharp-pointed nails on the road, apt to slash our tires,"
remarked Jerry, who had experienced so much of the trickery of the
Lasher crowd that he believed there was nothing too mean or small for
them to attempt.
"Not a bad idea, so slow up until the other boys arrive. They may hardly
feel like doing anything, now that we happen along."
"I'd feel sure they wouldn't if we could only coax Bluff to exhibit that
awful pump-gun of his. Talk about your scorchers, I think Andy would run
a mile--I know I would if I thought the murderous thing was going to be
turned on me," growled Jerry, who, as the reader must already have
noticed, was a very persistent fellow, and hard to convince, especially
when on his favorite subject of a fair deal for every living creature.
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