“What’s that?” cried Bob.
“It sounded like—him!” declared Jerry.
“Oh—Oh fellows—help me—Oh I’m—I’m stuck!” exclaimed a woe-begone voice.
Simultaneously our friends turned their gaze in the direction of the cry. It came from a slimy black pool of mud and water, off to the left of the Nixon car, which was in the slough over the hubs. The sight that met the gaze of Jerry and his chums was enough to excite their pity, even though the victim was their worst enemy.
Noddy Nixon was standing in the mud puddle which came considerably over his waist, and from the condition of his face, it was evident that he had been flung in head first, and had, after a struggle righted himself. He was covered, streaked, spotted and speckled with the black, slimy mud. It dripped from his shoulders, dripped from his extended hands, and even oozed from his chin in a slimy stream.
For a moment our heroes gazed at him without speaking, then Jerry uttered an expression combining surprise, dismay and pity.
“Well, what do you think of that?”
“He certainly is all in,” was Ned’s opinion.
“Good and proper,” murmured Bob.
Probably the hardest thing Noddy Nixon ever had to do was to appeal for help to the three boys whom he had, many times in the past, used so meanly. Yet there was no way out of it.