“That’s just the idea, it’s too good and the cops are right on the job along here. You see it’s only about five miles into Portland and it’s a favorite ‘pick ’em up’ stretch. Don’t you remember Slim Jones telling how he got pinched last year for doing thirty-eight and it costing him thirty-seven dollars and ninety-two cents? Well it was right along here that it happened. Safety first, you know.”
Put-put-put-put-put-a-put put.
“There’s one of ’em now,” Jack said as he turned his head. “Hope to goodness he isn’t after us.”
A few minutes later the approaching motorcycle drew up alongside and the driver, a young fellow about the age of Bob, dressed in the uniform of the cycle corps of Maine, waved his hand for them to stop.
“Say, for the love of Mike, what kind of machines have you got there?” he asked as they dismounted. “At first I thought you were coasting but when you went up that hill a piece back I knew you couldn’t be, but you didn’t make a bit of noise. What kind of a muffler you got?”
“None at all.” Bob smiled. “You see these wheels are run by an electric motor.”
“But how about the battery? I don’t see any place for one.”
Bob opened a small case strapped behind his saddle and took out a brass cylinder about eight inches long and an inch thick.
“This is the kind of cell we use.”
“Where’d you get it?”