"Oh, you and your girls!" exclaimed Frank.
"She isn't mine—wish she was," rejoined Andy. "She and the fellow who bangs the piano are chummy. No chance for me. Oh, for cats' sake! We've struck one of those western Indian dramas, acted over in Hoboken."
But if the first picture was not to the liking of the Racer boys, the other films were, and they remained for the whole show. On their way toward school from the trolley they took a short cut through a rather dark lane, for, though they did not much mind getting in after the hour prescribed by the proctor, still they did not want to take too many chances.
As Frank and Andy passed under one of the few lights that helped dispel the gloom of the seldom-used thoroughfare, they saw someone approaching. It was someone in a hurry, too, judging by the footsteps.
A moment later a man fairly rushed by the boys, and, at the sight of him as he disappeared in the darkness behind them, Frank uttered a cry.
"That fellow!" he exclaimed. "He's the lame man with the black beard—the one we saw in the show earlier to-night, and the one who was at the ball practice."
"Well, what of it?" asked Andy. "You're getting him on the brain, I guess."
"Hark!" exclaimed the younger lad.
They came to a halt. Then, above the rustle of the wind through the tree branches, both heard a faint moaning sound.
"Someone's hurt!" exclaimed Frank.