Peter Van Vechten was driving the car but he made no attempt to stop it. In fact, he seemed not to recognize their faces as he came toward them, and it was evident that Barney McGee unless he wanted to be run over would have to make haste to get out of the road, for the motor car was taking a very uncertain and rickety course on the highway.
Another half minute and they found themselves standing helplessly in the road, the automobile fifty yards away.
Barney, flourishing his pistol and digging his spurs into his horse was after it like a flash.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” they screamed. “We know him.”
But it was too late. There was the report of a pistol and the sound of the motor ceased almost instantly.
Rushing down the road, Billie in the lead, they found the car at a standstill, Peter Van Vechten lying out on the ground with Barney leaning over him.
“You’ve killed him,” cried Miss Campbell.
“No, no, ma’am. It was the tire I punctured, and not the thief. He fainted of his own accord.”
“But there is something the matter. He is injured,” exclaimed Mary. “Look at the bruise on his forehead.”
“Poor boy! Poor Peter,” said Miss Campbell, and immediately they all set to work to restore the aviator.