“Gosh! you never saw such a chase. Down th’ road run th’ boy, with th’ tramps arter him, an’ the feller with th’ cannon waitin’ t’ blow him t’ flinders. Then th’ boy got in sight of th’ gun, but he never stopped. Talk about pluck! He had it all right.
“Th’ feller with th’ cannon tried t’ shoot it, but, seems like it got jammed, or stuck, or suthin’. Anyhow he couldn’t shoot it, for I didn’t see no smoke, an’ I didn’t hear no noise. It might have been one of them new-fangled wireless cannon, eh?”
“Maybe,” agreed Larry. “What next?”
“Well, them tramps kept chasin’ arter that poor boy until finally they caught up to him. Say, I jest wish you could see th’ way they grabbed him! It was sure scandalous! I yelled out, but they was too far away t’ hear me.”
“Why didn’t you run over and help him?” asked Larry.
“I didn’t dast. Them tramps is desprit fellers,” replied the farmer. “Anyhow, they was too quick for me. They had th’ poor feller caught ’fore I could say Jack Robinson. He tried t’ git away, but he couldn’t, an’ they certainly handled him shameful.
“They started back toward th’ house with him, an’ by heck, if he didn’t give ’em th’ slip when he was close t’ it. Yes, he did. I give him credit for it, too. He got away an’ he run like a whitehead, but th’ tramps was too much fer him, an’ they took him in th’ house.”
“Is he there yet?” asked Larry eagerly, his mind filled with visions of Lorenzo, the stolen boy.
“I think he is,” replied the farmer. “I was so excited that I jest stood there in my bean patch, wonderin’ if I’d dreamed it all. I were jest comin’ away, thinkin’ how I could best notify th’ New York police, when suthin’ else happened.”
“What?” asked Larry impatiently.