It was well after three o’clock before the Flying Juggernaut completed her last trip across the field and the moon was well down toward the west. Four very tired boys—and sleepy, too, now that the effects of the coffee were working off—rolled across to the gate, unbarred it, rolled through, closed it behind them, and set off again along Common Street. Somehow they cared less about discovery now and didn’t even take the trouble to lower their voices as they rumbled past the darkened houses. Morris announced that they had made a mistake in the name of the steam roller; that its right name was “Reverberating Reginald.” The others were too sleepy to argue about it, however.
Gordon, who had taken Lanny’s place at the wheel, turned into the cross street and headed Reginald toward his berth. They didn’t take the precaution to send scouters ahead now, and perhaps it wasn’t worth while since the street lay plainly before them for several blocks. And perhaps what happened would have happened just the same. Lanny always insisted that it wouldn’t, but never could prove his point. At all events, what did happen was this:
Just as they had trundled over the crossing at Main Street a voice reached them above the noise of the roller and a figure suddenly stepped into the road a few yards ahead. One very startled glance at the figure was sufficient. With a fine unanimity four forms detached themselves from the sheltering gloom of the steam roller and fled back along the road. Possibly the policeman was so surprised at the sudden result of his challenge that pursuit did not occur to him, or, possibly, the continued stately advance of the steam roller in his direction disconcerted him. At all events the boys became mere flying shapes in the distance before the officer took action. When he did he stepped nimbly out of the path of the roller and remarked stentoriously as it rumbled by:
“Hi, there! What’s this? Where you goin’ with that roller, hey?”
As there was no response he went after it, discovering to his surprise that the reason he had received no reply was that there was no one there to offer it! What occurred subsequently would have hugely diverted a spectator had there been one, which there wasn’t. On and on went the roller, moving further and further toward the sidewalk, and on and on trotted the policeman, making ineffectual efforts to board it. He had a very healthy respect for engines and wasn’t at all certain that this one might not resent his company. At last, however, desperation gave him courage and he stumbled onto the platform and began to pull, push or twist every movable thing he could lay hands on. The results were disconcerting. A cloud of white steam burst forth from somewhere with an alarming rush and hiss, a shrill, excruciating whistle shattered the night and a tiny stream of very hot water sprayed down his sleeve! But the roller kept right on rolling, majestically, remorselessly!
The policeman gave up in despair and rapped loudly with his club for assistance. At that moment the roller, heedless of his appeal, reached the intersection of Lafayette Street and, no longer restrained by the curbing against which it had been grinding, angled purposefully across and collided violently with a lamp-post. The lamp-post gave appreciably under the unexpected assault and the light flared wildly and expired. The steam roller, although its further progress was barred, kept on revolving its big wheels and the policeman, picking himself up, rescued his helmet from the coal-box and hurried from the scene.
CHAPTER XII
ON DICK’S PORCH
“After that,” said Gordon, “I don’t know just what did happen. I was too busy getting away from there to look back. I cut across an open field and got into the shadow of the fence on Louise Street and pretty soon Way came along. Where Lanny and Morris got to I don’t know. Maybe they’re still running!”
It was Sunday morning and Gordon and Dick were seated on the latter’s porch. Dick, who had listened to his friend’s narration with much amusement, laughed again.