“I know how to get a ‘tow’ to the plant,” Curt whispered to himself, swinging his handlebars to turn into the next cross street. “They usually get shipments of fabric on the eleven o’clock freight, and our truck is there to load it in.” He glanced at his wrist watch.
“Yes,” he told himself, “it ought to be loaded or nearly so—and that means the truck will be starting soon. I’ll ride along till it catches up with me and then let it pull me where I’m going.”
It was a reasonable notion and well-founded. That it was sound was soon proved, for Curt saw the truck turning into the street just ahead, from the direction of the station.
He had expected it to come from the street he had passed, but realized that it must have followed the direction it had been pointed instead of turning around in the station yards; increasing his speed for the moment, Curt caught up with the tail boards of the large truck, took hold with one hand, set his coaster brake, and rode in comfort, resting his weary feet.
To his great surprise the truck turned off at a crossroad.
“What does that mean?” he wondered.
He let go and dropped back a few yards, intending to let the truck go; but it bothered him to decide what caused the change of route.
Curt resuming his pedaling, following at a little distance, determined that for all his weariness he ought to find out why a truck, openly laden with cases and parcels, boxes and canvas sacks, should not go directly to its destination to be ready for unloading when the plant opened in the morning.
The ride was not more than a half mile.
Curt, keeping at good distance, let the truck get around a bend. He could follow by the sound of the motor. He did not wish to be seen.