Love of outdoor life and sports now stood Jack in good stead. Despite the exhausting efforts of his escape, and the hard running amid the trees, over trunks and through undergrowth, he kept on at the top of his speed, and finally reached the road ahead of the nearest of his pursuers.
Rushing for his wheel, he dragged it forth, and quickly had it on the road. Not a moment too soon. As he sprang into the saddle there was a shout and a crash of bushes but a few feet from him. But throwing all his weight on the pedals, he shot away, and a moment after sped about a bend in the road—and was safe.
Jack would not have been a real boy had there not been considerable pride in his voice when, entering the “Star” office the following morning, he handed West, the reporter, two small photographs, neatly mounted, and said:
“Here are the pictures, Mr. West.”
West sprang to his feet. “No! Great! Splendid!” he cried. “How did you do it, Jack?
“But here—” Pushing Jack into a chair, he dropped back into his own, and caught up a pencil. “Give me the whole story, from beginning to end. If the police round up these fellows this morning we will run it in to-day’s edition.”
This, with the aid of Jack’s snap-shots, the police did, capturing the entire band; and that afternoon’s edition of the “Star” carried a two-column story of Jack’s adventure with the Black-Handers, which, with the pictures, made what West declared “the biggest story of a month of Sundays.”