As John Quincy hurried away Pete Mayberry was busily explaining that the thing was unheard of—not in twenty years—maybe more than that—his voice died in the distance.
Hallet was in his room, and John Quincy detailed his evening's adventure. The captain was incredulous, but when the boy came to the wrist watch on the driver of the car, he sat up and took notice.
"Now you're talking," he cried. "I'll start the force after that car to-night. First two figures 33, you say. I'll send somebody aboard that tramp, too. They can't get away with stuff like that around here."
"Oh, never mind them," said John Quincy magnanimously. "Concentrate on the watch."
Back in the quiet town he walked with his head up, his heart full of the joy of battle. And while he thought of it, he stepped into the cable office. The message he sent was addressed to Agatha Parker on that Wyoming ranch. "San Francisco or nothing," was all it said.
As he walked down the deserted street on his way to the corner to wait for his trolley, he heard quick footsteps on his trail again. Who now? He was sore and weary, a bit fed up on fighting for one evening. He quickened his pace. The steps quickened too. He went even faster. So did his pursuer. Oh, well, might as well stop and face him.
John Quincy turned. A young man rushed up, a lean young man in a cap.
"Mr. Winterslip, ain't it?" He thrust a dark brown object into John Quincy's hand. "Your July Atlantic, sir. Came in on the Maui this morning."
"Oh," said John Quincy limply. "Well, I'll take it. My aunt might like to look at it. Keep the change."
"Thank you, sir," said the newsman, touching his cap.