“Sure, we’re all mighty sorry,” put in Postmaster Ferrell. “We never——”
“Never mind about that! I know where he’s gone,” said Lockwood instantly. “He’s after his friends—Blue Bob and the house boat, down the river. Can’t we get another motor boat?”
“Nearest motor boat’s at Foster’s Mills,” said Ferrell. “It’s eleven miles.”
“Get into the car!” cried Tom. “We can git there ’fore he does. Come on, Lockwood. Got a gun?”
Somebody handed him a revolver. He jumped into the front seat beside Tom. Three men piled into the rear—Jim Ferrell, the son of the postmaster, one of the Fenway boys who had played poker at that house, and a third man whom he did not know.
Tom drove at a reckless clip. Down the hill they went, over the creek, up past the post office to the crossroads, and then turned south down a road that Lockwood had never before traveled. Leaning over, he sketched his story half breathlessly into Tom’s ear, the words jolted from his teeth by the speed of their travel.
“I dunno why that young fool didn’t tell me the fix he was in,” said Tom. “Between us, we’d have fixed Blue Bob. Hanna was playin’ us all for suckers, seems like.”
The road seemed to be following the river. Twice Lockwood caught a glimpse of the wide, black water. Halfway, and a tire blew out. It took ten feverish minutes to place the spare one. They rushed through an endless swamp, where the road wound in short, dangerous curves, and then came in sight of Foster’s Mills—a little village of cabins and frame houses around the great sheds of the sawmills, all utterly dark.
Springing out, Tom rushed up to Foster’s own dwelling and beat on the door. A window opened; there was a startled exclamation, and in two minutes Foster came out at a run, in shirt and trousers.
“Sure you-all can have the boat!” he exclaimed, starting toward the river. “Here, this way! I heerd something goin’ down the river with engines, I reckon not quarter of an hour ago.”