Neale said to the girls, quite quietly though his eyes flashed:
“Mrs. Heard wants you to come back to the car at once. Please hurry.”
“Say! I don’t get you,” began the rough again.
“You will in a moment,” Neale shot at him. “Go away, girls!”
Agnes did not want to go now; but Ruth saw it would be better and she fairly dragged her sister away.
“Neale will be hurt!” moaned Agnes, all the way to the car. “That awful rowdy has friends, of course.”
What really happened to Neale the girls never knew, for he would not talk about it. Trained from his very babyhood as an acrobat, the ex-circus boy would be able to give a good account of himself if it came to fisticuffs with the freckled-faced fellow. Although the latter was considerably older and taller than Neale, the way he had lived had not hardened his muscles and made him quick of eye and foot or handy with his fists.
Perhaps Neale did not fight at all. At least he came back to the car without a mark upon him and without even having had his clothes ruffled. All he said in answer to the excited questions of the girls was:
“That’s a fellow called Saleratus Joe. You can tell why—his face with all those yellow freckles looks like an old fashioned saleratus biscuit. He belongs in Milton. I’ve seen him before. He isn’t much better than a saloon lounger.”
“Goodness me!” exclaimed Mrs. Heard. “Saleratus Joe is one of the fellows who my nephew thinks stole his automobile. I must tell him that we saw the fellow. Perhaps the car can be traced after all.”