“Most of ’em fell in the weeds,” the boy said. “They wasn’t very good kites—just made of old, brown-bag paper. I can make better kites ’n them. They was made of old sticks. I picked some of ’em up, but they wasn’t any good. One flew a long way off, though. I couldn’t find that.”
“I can see just what happened,” Tom spoke in a low voice to Mr. Damon. “Poor Ned tried two or three kite messengers before he finally got one into a stiff breeze that carried it to Cherry Valley. But we are losing valuable time. Which way did the three well men take the sick man in their big auto?” Tom asked the barefooted lad.
“Down there,” and he pointed to the western road.
“Where does that lead to?”
“Lake Carlopa, ’bout ten miles farther on.”
“Lake Carlopa!” cried Tom. “That’s where they’re heading for. Come on! We may catch them yet!”
Tossing the lad another quarter, Tom led his friends toward his car and they were soon off again on the wild chase. They had a definite object now, for the lad had given them such a description of the other auto as to make it easy for them to inquire about it along the way.
Their inquiries were fruitful to the extent that at several garages and hot-dog stands along the highway the pursuers learned that the machine in question, containing three men and one who appeared to be ill or injured had passed not long before.
“We’re catching up to them!” Tom exulted, when they had covered half the distance to Lake Carlopa. This was evident by the information given at different garages. Whereas at first the fleeing car had been half an hour ahead, it was now but ten minutes. “We’ll get them!” cried the young inventor.
Though Tom got every inch of speed possible out of his crippled runabout, when Lake Carlopa was reached they found the kidnappers’ car abandoned on the shore of the lake.