“I was only too glad to help you out,” he said. “You ought to make a complaint to the officers of the club about your wheel.”
“Wait until I find out who monkeyed with it,” said Bob, “and I’ll take care of him without any complaint,” and he doubled up his fist suggestively.
The three chums, Bob carrying his own disabled wheel, hurried to where Pete was. They found that worthy consuming his third cheap cigar, evidently in great enjoyment.
Jerry and Ned made a hasty examination of their bicycles, and quickly discovered something wrong with each.
“The same scoundrel that tampered with Bob’s was at ours,” said Ned. “Bearings tightened and steel filings in the graphite. Who was it, I wonder?”
“Say, Pete,” began Bob, “did any one touch our wheels while we were away?”
“Not a one, my dear son,” recited Pete with a wise air.
“Here Pete, you drop that poetry and attend to business,” said Bob, somewhat sternly. “Were you here every minute since we left?”
“I went over to get some cigars.”
“And who stayed with the wheels while you were away?”