Sawdon sprang forward furiously. Behind him came the man with the whip. He “clubbed” his weapon and aimed a vicious blow at Mr. Jesson’s head. But Tom caught the descending wrist in a steel grip. He gave it a quick wrench, and with an “ouch!” of pain the fellow dropped the whip.
In the meantime Sawdon set up a shout for his assistants. In a moment a score of canvasmen and performers came running from every side, armed with tent pegs. The crowd scattered right and left before the attackers.
“We’ll have to get out of this quick,” exclaimed Mr. Jesson, in a low voice to Jack.
The boy nodded. At the same instant he started the propeller. Up shot the Flying Road Racer like a stone out of a sling. Sawdon, who had just sprung at its side, was flung over in a heap, with his companion of the whip on top of him. As the big machine rose a roar of rage went up from the circus hands. But they could do nothing but shake their fists.
Suddenly Tom bethought himself of something which they had forgotten in the excitement. Putting his head over the edge of the car he shouted downward to the crowd:
“Is this Pokeville?”
“Naw, this is Westerlo!” was yelled back from below; “Pokeville’s six miles to the west.”
Jack changed his course, and before long they came in sight of a small town, which really proved to be Pokeville. They descended in the village, much to the alarm of some of the inhabitants, and inquired the way to Mr. Peregrine’s home.
A handsome structure with a pillared portico, standing on a hill about a mile off, was pointed out to them as the home of the inventor.
“No use flying there,” decided Jack; “we’ll take to automobiling again.”