“Wonder where he’s going.” Curt slipped along the side of the house by which they had stopped. “He’s in a terrible hurry,” he reported, coming back. “In a second he’ll be passing this house. Get back—behind the house. I don’t think he’ll notice the bikes on the grass in the dusk.”
They hid from the view of anyone on the sidewalk. Peering cautiously out in turn they saw Langley hurrying by.
“Now—where’s he going?”
“And what shall we do about it?”
“See where he goes,” Curt answered the other two.
Lang turned the next corner.
“I’ll bet he’s going to Griff’s house!”
Al was correct in his guess. As they trundled their bicycles, keeping as far behind Lang as they thought necessary, they saw him turn in at Griff’s gate. Five minutes later, from carefully chosen points of concealment they saw Lang come out, take Griff’s repaired motorcycle and ride off in haste.
Consulting one another with dismayed eyes, the chums, by common consent, mounted and pedaled for dear life along the street, around the corner, back to the main highway.
They seemed to sense where Langley was going.