"No, I came from the East. I'll have to tell you my story some day. It's rather a curious one."
Dave reflected that his own was, also, but he was not so sure he wanted to tell it. Every day had increased his admiration for Mr. Bellmore, but there are some facts that we keep even from our best friends.
They were on a downward slope now, and the going was better. Slowly but surely they were overtaking Len. Now and then he glanced back over his shoulder, as if to measure the distance separating him from his pursuers.
"Do you think he'll shoot?" asked Mr. Bellmore.
"He may," said Dave, calmly. "He's a big enough bully to do so, but he's the worst shot you ever heard of. I really believe he's afraid of a gun."
"Still, sometimes those chaps make a bull's-eye out of pure luck."
"We've got to take the chance," Dave said. "Keep well down on your horse's neck."
But Len showed no intention of drawing a weapon. Probably it was all he could do to manage his now fast-tiring steed.
Suddenly the stillness of the morning was broken by a prolonged shrill screech.
"What's that?" cried Mr. Bellmore.