The hours crept by with leaden feet for Ding-dong until the chugging of Pepper’s motorcycle was heard soon after supper. The young wireless operator had tried to communicate with Goat Island in the meantime, but, as we already know, had failed in his attempt. As a last resource, therefore, he had entrusted a message to the operator at Station O.
“All ready?” demanded Pepper, as he came dashing up.
“Been rur-rur-ready ever since you left,” declared Ding-dong; “let’s get off as soon as possible.”
“All right, run along behind, and when I tell you to, swing into the seat,” ordered Pepper.
He started his motor with a whirr and a bang and the speedy machine dashed off down the street, with Ding-dong clinging on behind with all his might. But he enjoyed the ride and waved to several of his young acquaintances as the motorcycle sped through the town and then out upon the country road.
“How far is it out there?” asked Ding-dong of Pepper, as they chugged along at a fast gait.
“Not more than ten or twelve miles, but it is in a lonesome canyon near the sea, and as the ground is very unproductive out that way, there isn’t another ranch within miles. It makes a fine hiding place for a man like you describe this fellow Minory to be.”
“Yes, I’ll ber-ber-bet he thought he could stay there for a year without being found out. It’s a lot less rer-rer-risky for him than to ter-ter-try to take a train, for he knows all the depots and steamers are watched.”
“What puzzles me is how he came to take up his residence there. He’d hardly be likely to stumble on such a place by accident,” said Pepper, “especially as he is an Eastern product.”
“That’s all b-b-b-beyond me,” declared Ding-dong, “but I g-g-g-guess after his arrest that will be straightened out.”