“That’s right,” exclaimed Bob.
“Now, fellows, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” suggested Jerry. “We’ll go to the station and get the baggage of the two miners, and then it will be nearly dinner time. My! how this day has passed! Come on, we’ll run down in the car.”
As they were about to enter it there was a rush of feet down the street, and a shrill voice burst out with:
“You’d better look out—he’s awful mad—says he’s going to fix you—blow up the place—have you arrested—sent to jail—he’s raving—completely fooled—you’ll soon see him—Oh my! wow!”
“What’s the matter now, Andy?” asked Jerry, turning to see the little chap panting from a run, and from his flow of words. “Is it a mad dog, or a runaway horse?”
“It’s Noddy Nixon!” gasped Andy. “He—he——” but words failed him, and he could only make motions with his lips.
“Oh, Noddy!” exclaimed Jerry. “Here, Andy, hop in and we’ll see if we can’t catch your breath for you,” and he cranked the car while the others took their seats.
They had not progressed far down the street before, near the jewelry store toward which he had gone, they saw Noddy Nixon. Beside him was Bill Berry, wheeling a barrow load of dirt, and the looks on the faces of the two showed anger and disappointment.
“Slow up, Jerry,” said Ned, in a low voice, and the tall lad did so.
Noddy Nixon, catching sight of them, said something to Bill, who stopped. Then the bully, shaking his fist at the three chums, exclaimed: