“It’s the Bolger boys,” said Dave, peering forth from his covert.
“Hustle, fellows,” the oldest of the trio was urging.
“Yes, there’s some kind of a rumpus up at the Warner place,” added a second voice.
“Hope it’s a fire,” piped in a third, reckless voice. “That would make a regular celebration, after the airships.”
Dave, from what he overheard, judged that the Bolgers were on their way from the village when attracted by the commotion at the Warner farm. Others might soon appear, Dave mused, and struck out across a meadow. He knew that it would be risky to go into the village or nearer to it. In a very short time, thought Dave, his guardian would have the sheriff and his assistants looking for him.
The lad thought rapidly. He planned that if he could reach the switching yards of the railroad, he might get aboard some freight car and ride safely out of the district. He ran along a wide ditch which lined the Bolger farm, intending to leap it at a narrow part and cut thence across a patch of low land to the railroad tracks.
“O—oh!” suddenly ejaculated Dave, and fell flat, the breath nearly knocked out of his body.
He squirmed about, wincing with a severe pain in one ankle, and wondering what had tripped and still held him a prisoner.
“It’s a trap,” said Dave, as he got to a sitting position and investigated. “It’s a muskrat trap set by the Bolger boys, I guess.”
The blunt edges of the trap, which was secured by a chain to a stake driven into the ground, did not hurt him particularly. It was the severe wrench, the sudden stopping, that had caused the trouble. Dave pried the trap loose and got to his feet.