Dave didn't bother to question that because it had all made good sense on his spinning brain. So he simply gulped night air into his aching lungs and raced along through the night at Freddy's side. No less than a thousand times, it seemed, they tripped over tree roots, rocks, and shrubs, and almost went flat. But somehow they both managed to keep their feet, and presently they broke through some shrubbery and out onto the smoothness of a well paved road. There they pulled up to a halt by silent mutual agreement. And by the same kind of agreement they slumped down by the side of the road and fought to regain their breath.
Finally Freddy Farmer was able to talk without wheezing out the words.
"Well, that's a score for our team, what?" he said. "A bit risky while it lasted, though. Anyway, those three dirty blighters will have no more to do with this war, thank heaven!"
"Me, I say, thank you!" Dave corrected. "Sweet tripe! You sure are learning fast, pal. You were way ahead of me that time. Fact is, I'm still not sure just what did happen. What about what broken neck? And who shot that Bixby?"
"Guilty," Freddy Farmer said grimly. "He was just about to have a go at you when I put an end to his dirty work. I guess you must have stunned yourself going down on that Stohl. But what a beautiful tackle, Dave! Don't ever try it on me, even in fun. I wouldn't want my neck broken the way his was. Just as I got hold of the gun, and was turning around, I saw him fire. But I'll swear he was stone dead at the time. Well, it looks like we both had the same thought at the same time, eh? I'd been playing doggo for what seemed like hours, waiting to have a go at that oil lamp."
"With what, I want to know?" Dave asked. "I thought I saw something fly out of your hand. What was it?"
"A rung of the chair they'd pushed me into," Freddy said quietly. "Rickety old thing, it was. Blessed wonder it held me up. The two of them were so interested in you, old chap, they didn't even see me work it loose. Well, they're done with, and we've got to be getting along. When the Flying Scotsman arrives at Aberdeen without us—"
"It will, anyway," Dave said, and grabbed hold of Farmer's arm, "so one more question won't change anything. About the gun you said you got hold of—what one?"
"This one," the English youth, replied and held out a small bore automatic. "It's that conductor beggar's, of course. When he fell to the floor this slid out of his hand. Nobody paid any attention to it. But I did. Oh, quite! That's what I had my eye on all the time. It, and that oil lamp on the table. And thanks to your bit with Herr Stohl, I had the chance to dive for it and get it in time. Good gosh! Did you think I simply planned to fight my way out of that mess with my bare hands?"
Dave Dawson chuckled, gave him a friendly slap on the back, and got up onto his feet.