"But am I in time?" he cried. "It is morning—and about ten o'clock, I should judge. I've been working to get free all night. Will I be in time?"
He gave one last look behind at his prison and sprang down the rickety stairs. He had but one thought—to reach home in time to unmask the villain who was impersonating him—to be in time to make the journey to the moon.
"But it's several miles, and I can't walk very fast," murmured Mark.
"I'm too stiff and weak. How can I do it?"
He thought of making his way to the nearest farm house, and asking for the loan of a horse and carriage, but he looked so much like a tramp that no farmer would lend him a horse.
"And I need to make speed," he murmured.
At that moment he heard a noise down the road. It was a steady "chug-chug," like some distant motor-boat, but there was no water near at hand.
"A motorcycle!" exclaimed Mark. "Some one is coming on a motorcycle.
Oh, if I could only borrow it!"
He ran down into the road. He could see the rider now. To his joy it was Dick Johnson—the lad who had brought him the mysterious note.
"Hi Dick! Dick! hold on!" cried Mark.
The lad on the motor gave one glance at the ragged figure that had hailed him. Then he turned on more power to escape from what he thought was a savage tramp.