OVERHAULING THE THIEF.
Matt, headed in the direction of the canal and Phœnix, set the pace. It was a fast one, and Chub was blowing before they had covered a hundred yards.
"If you want me to travel with you," puffed Chub, "you'll have to be a little less hasty. What's the good, anyhow? Those motor-cycles are going a dozen feet to our one."
Matt pulled down to a dog-trot in order to explain and to give Chub a chance to get back his wind.
"You're wrong, Chub," said he. "Even at this rate, we're traveling faster than the motor-cycles, or at least as fast."
"The thieves can't be in much of a hurry to get away."
"No one is riding the motor-cycles. There are only two motor-cycle tracks leading this way, and we made 'em ourselves when we rode to the Bluebell."
"Mebby the thieves went the other way?"
"No tracks on the other part of the road at all."