"You can't make a bloodhound out of a collie," despaired Craig, looking about again helplessly.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a police whistle. He blew three sharp blasts.
Would it bring help?
. . . . . . . .
While we were thus despairing, the continued absence of Dr. Morton from home had alarmed his family and had set in motion another train of events.
When he did not return, and could not be located at the place to which he was supposed to have gone, several policemen had been summoned to his house, and they had come, finally, with real bloodhounds from a suburban station.
There were the tracks of his car. That the police themselves could follow, while two men came along holding in leash the pack, leaders of which were "Searchlight" and "Bob."
It had not been long before the party came across the deserted runabout beside the road. There they had stopped, for a moment.
It was just then that they heard Kennedy's call, and one of them had been detailed to answer it.
"Well, what do YOU want?" asked the officer, eyeing Kennedy suspiciously as he stood there with the armor. "What's them pieces of tin—hey?"