Still without any definite plan, the boys brought the motorcycle to a stop at the same place.
There was a barroom in front, and a sign announced that soda and soft drinks were for sale.
They pulled their caps down over their faces, went in and ordered sarsaparilla. They took their seats at a small table in the rear and sipped it slowly, glancing carelessly from time to time at the two men who were sitting nearby with a whisky bottle between them.
And as they looked, the suspicion that these were the tramps they had seen in Sam Perkins’ barn became a certainty. There was the tall man with the scar on his temple showing clearly; and the short, stout man with him was without doubt his former companion. They were dressed more decently than before, evidently as the result of their stealings, but there had been no improvement in their coarse and evil faces.
They seemed in no hurry, and it was a pretty safe guess that they would tarry where they were until they had emptied the bottle.
“You stay here,” whispered Fred to Teddy, “and keep your eye on them. I’ll take the bike and skip down to the main part of the town and get a constable.”
“I’ll be back in a minute, Ted,” he said aloud, as he sauntered from the room.
He climbed into the saddle and in three minutes was in the heart of the town. A hurried inquiry led him to the office of the constable. He found him at his ease, swapping stories with three or four of his cronies.
But the indifference with which he greeted Fred’s entrance gave place to eager interest as Fred told him of the theft at Oldtown and of the reward that had been offered.
“Sure, I’ll go with you, Son,” he said, rising to his feet. “And two or three of you fellows had better come along,” he added to his friends. “Those fellows may put up a fight when they’re tackled.”