Out of the stable door shot the black horse, bearing Frank on its back.
“Good-by!” he called. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Riddle!”
“Stop him!” howled Riddle.
The sheriff tried to catch the horse by the bit, missed, grasped at Frank’s leg, touched it—that was all.
Onward shot the horse and rider. Frank turned and waved his hand with a taunting movement.
“Thief! thief!—stop thief!”
“That is a pleasant cry to hear!” commented Merry, grimly. “I’ll remember Mr. Delvin Riddle for this little piece of business.”
He looked back and saw men and boys running after him, shouting for him to stop.
A cloud of dust rose behind the heels of the horse, for it was dry in the streets of the town.
The cries grew fainter and fainter. Frank turned onto another street, and his pursuers were seen no more for a time.