“What was it?” cried Bob, seeing that there was no danger. He and Ned had run for the engine room, in which Jerry had been working when the man meddled with the wheel.
“Oh, that fellow started the motor, and the muffler wasn’t attached,” answered the tall lad. “No damage done. I stopped her in time. But maybe it will teach him a lesson.”
It seemed to, for the fellow did not come back. Instead, he went to a certain resort in the town, and there he met a man with a long scar on his face—a livid scar.
“Well, did you find out anything?” asked the man with the scar. “Did you get next, Ike Weldon?”
“All I found out, Jake Paxton, was that they’re hunting for bugs—as if they couldn’t get enough without lookin’ for ’em. That’s what they told me, and then th’ shebang blew up!”
“Blew up—how?”
“Well, I monkeyed with it, I guess,” and Ike Weldon told of the results of his visit.
“Say, you’re a pretty one to send to get information!” exclaimed Jake, with contempt. “I thought you knew your business!”
“I do. They’re after bugs, I tell you!”
“I don’t believe it. They wouldn’t come away out here with an airship for that. I’ll have to fix up some sort of a disguise and go myself. They saw me at the Junction, where I changed my ticket, and they might know me. But I’m sure that’s the man we want to keep track of—that biggest Westerner. I’ll go around there myself to-morrow.”