Time was getting short. “That’s a swell knife—look at all the blades it’s got,” said Jake desperately. “Tell you what—I’ll give you the knife and all this money too, if you let me borrow your wheel for just an hour or two!”
The added attraction of the knife was enough to sway the smaller boy’s mind. He snatched it and the coins from Jake’s hand, and then slowly climbed down off his bicycle.
“You’re making a good swap, kid,” said Jake, gripping the handlebars. He was surprised to find that the boy, as though he had suddenly changed his mind, was clinging to the bicycle with determination. “Say, what’s the matter?”
The boy shook his head. A thought had just occurred to him. “How do I know you’ll bring it back? Maybe you’ll bust it, or I’ll never see you again!”
Jake’s patience was rapidly giving out. “Look here!” he said. “You haven’t got sense enough to take my promise. Well, see this mackinaw I’m wearing? It’s a good coat, and worth two or three measly bikes like this one!” He slipped off the garment, and held it out. “Here, take it. You can keep that until I bring your bike back safe, just to show you I’m not trying to steal anything. Do you get that?” The boy looked at the coat, then at the money and knife in his hand. Jake tucked the coat under the lad’s arm. “All right. You keep the mackinaw, and in a little while I’ll bring this back to that red house over there—that’s where you live, isn’t it?—and get back my coat.”
Before the boy could change his mind or offer further objection, Jake climbed into the saddle and began pedalling down the road toward Apple Hill. He had not gone far when he heard a shout behind him, as if the boy had already doubted the wisdom of his transaction; but he increased his speed, and was shortly amid the houses of the town.
He found the road to Canoe Mountain without any trouble, and speeded off to the westward. Only a few miles away the low blue line of the hills, bristling with pine and spruce trees on the skyline, pointed his goal. About half a mile after he had left Apple Hill behind, the asphalt paving ended, and the road became a dusty and rutted stretch of dirt. A fine powder, stirred up by his progress, settled on his clothing, coated his face and choked his nostrils. Yet he kept on, pedalling as hard as he could go.
Some three miles on his way, he came to the span of a concrete bridge, which carried the road across a slowly-moving stream. Jake dismounted, and wheeled the bicycle beneath the bridge, where a grassy bank spread invitingly in the sunshine of the late afternoon. It was warm there, and restful.... He needed a bit of rest, to get his breath back.
Jake stretched his limbs out luxuriously. His hunger made him feel a little light-headed. He closed his eyes for a moment to shut out the bright sun. Burk—Jerry—the prison guard—hungry....
He awoke with a start. It was late. The sun was almost down, now; there was a misty chill in the air beside the slowly-gliding brook. He jumped up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. What had happened? The bicycle lying at his side brought his memory back again. For several precious hours he had been sleeping; he could have been at Canoe Mountain Lodge by this time! Hurriedly he pulled together his scattered wits, and climbed to the road. The coast was clear. He pushed the bicycle up the embankment, mounted, and once more was riding toward the hills that loomed darkly before him in the dusk.