“Well, pick out a good place as you go along,” advised the tall lad, “and we’ll pull up there and stop.”
“That hill looks to be in a good location,” suggested Bob, pointing to a rise in the distance. “There is a grove of trees there, and we can pull into them for the night. Speed up, and make it, Jerry.”
The lad at the wheel was about to pull over the gasolene lever, and adjust the spark, when, out from a little country lane, just in front of the auto, leaped a man, with a shining badge on his coat, a club in one hand and a revolver in the other. He held out his arms to obstruct their passage, at the same time crying in loud tones:
“Halt! Hold on there! You can’t go any further! I’m the law, an’ I says so. You’ve got to come with me!”
Jerry looked quickly at the speedometer, and saw that it registered only about six miles per hour. He was glad he had not sent the car racing ahead.
“Come on now! No tricks! Stop that car!” commanded the evident official. “You’ve got to come with me.”
“What for?” asked Jerry. “Not for speeding evidently, for we were going like a snail.”
“I didn’t say nothin’ about no speedin’,” replied the man. “It’s a more serious charge than that. I’ve been on the lookout for ye a long time, an’ I got ye, by heck! Come along!”
By this time Jerry had easily brought the car to a stop not far from the grizzled man.
“What right have you got to stop us?” demanded the young steersman. “Who are you, and what is the charge against us?”