“Ruth!” she cried, her pretty face drawn with anxiety, “what is this I hear about the boys?”
“Let’s get started and I’ll tell you,” said Ruth. She scarcely knew her own voice, it sounded so strained and queer.
Boardman came up to her, chin thrust out, his determined eyes gleaming under heavy brows.
“We’ll get them, Miss Fielding!” he promised grimly. “There is not a man here but what has some private and personal grudge against Bloomberg. May the Fates help him if we lay hands on him to-day!”
“Then let us hurry—hurry!” begged Ruth passionately. “We must not waste a moment! Are you all ready?”
“Ready!” cried Boardman, and there came eager assent from the men.
At Boardman’s request, two horses had been made ready for the girls. They sprang to the saddle and intimated by slackened rein that the animals might set their own pace.
It was a good one, and as the posse dashed along the dusty road it presented a formidable appearance.
“Mean business, Slick, I reckon,” said Sandy Banks, twirling the upturning ends of his magnificent mustache thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t care to be in that Bloomberg’s shoes, no way you might look at it.”
“I’d like to be in Bloomberg’s pocket though,” said the mournful Slick Jones, feeling ruefully of his own flat wallet. “Might get back some of what’s owing me from that there sneakin’ crook. You can take it from me, my lad, that whatever Sol Bloomberg gets, it ain’t one, two, three to what’s owin’ him!”