“Oh, he will, will he?” the man said sharply. “How will he do that?”
The boy realized that he had said more than enough. He sank back in his seat. But Diker, it seemed, was not through with his questions.
“How’d you get down here to town so quickly?” he asked. Jerry shook his head. “Won’t, tell anything, eh? Well, we’ll find out all about it later. I don’t think you know where the others are anyway. You’re just like the skinny lad we treed up in the hills.”
“Sherlock?”
“That his name? He wouldn’t say a word to us—all he did was sneeze. I left Harris to take him along back. We got him, and now we’ve got you—and the rest of the crowd can’t be far away.”
The car slowed to a halt at a crossroads, where a motorcycle policeman in the khaki uniform of a state officer sat vigilantly astride his machine. Diker jumped out, and ran across to the man, hailing him as he came.
“See anything?” he asked.
The man in khaki shook his head. “Nothing unusual. I’d swear they haven’t come along this way.”
“Well, keep your eyes open,” he was admonished. “That plane up there will keep them from bolting toward the hills again. So long!”
Diker jumped back into his seat, and again the car slid forward. Twice more, as the miles went by, it stopped at the side of the road, and Diker spoke to men who seemed to be posted on guard. Once, they passed a car drawn up by the side of the road. It was a queer-looking affair, Jerry noted, with a canvas top like a prairie schooner, and a chubby little man who looked like a foreigner was pumping up a tire. They drove by this roadside scene so rapidly, however, that Jerry could not make out any details.