“We weel open it at my house then!”
They went out of the room and, as they padded down the stairs, Westy jumped up quietly and followed. As he got to the head of the stairs the other Mexican went on out, while Baptiste was extinguishing the lights, leaving only a dim night light burning in the hall.
As Westy got halfway down the stairs Baptiste went out also, so he hurried out after him quietly and hid behind some shrubbery in the driveway. The other Mexican was leaning over a rickety-looking Ford touring car and he put the precious tin box in the back seat, while Baptiste climbed in behind the wheel.
Westy’s mind was working fast. The Mexican got in the front seat also and as Baptiste turned on his tail light the scout’s heart leaped with joy as he saw young Mitchell’s motorcycle parked back in the driveway.
With the usual trembling of tin the Ford drove out into the roadway headed for the outskirts of the city. Before it had gone a block and a half, however, Westy was out of the driveway on the motorcycle and like a shot went after them.
Whether it was a guilty conscience or not, something prompted Baptiste to step on his gas and go the limit.
“Well, I’ll go the limit, too,” Westy said, “whether it’s my motorcycle or not.”
As he passed the corner on one wheel he saw a policeman standing talking to some people in another Ford and Westy shouted for them to follow.
Looking back, he saw they had started and so he went on. He knew Baptiste couldn’t keep it up with the exception that he might slip into some dark road and lose him.
So he crawled up easy just as young Mitchell had showed him and got alongside of the Ford. He raised himself then, just in a half standing position and reached over in the back seat of the touring car.