The rival bicyclists

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.