“Does it hurt much?” asked Bob. “Had you better stop and see a doctor?”
“No, thanks. I’ll be all right. I’m not going to give Marbury another chance at me.”
“Do you think he might try to waylay you again?” asked Bob, not a little apprehensive of being in the companionship of a man against whom, it was evident, some one had a grudge.
“Oh, he won’t get me now,” was the chuckled answer. “I’ve got the weather gage on him all right. We’ll soon be at my place.”
Storm Mountain was a small village at the foot of the mountain bearing that name, and Bob soon was driving through it, taking the turns pointed out by Mr. Beegle who sat beside him.
“The next turn to the left is the road that leads to my place,” said the old man, pointing ahead. They were on a quiet stretch of country thoroughfare, steadily ascending the grade. The flivver puffed and wheezed, but kept on going.
“Here we are—my shack!” exclaimed Mr. Beegle a little later, after the turn had been made into a sort of dirt lane. “Now I’m all right.”
Bob saw before him a small log cabin, rather neat and trim, with a flower garden in front, or, rather, the remains of one, for it was now October. And in the rear were standing some lima bean poles and shocks of dried corn.
Hiram Beegle leaped out of the flivver and stood still for a moment. He looked fixedly at the log cabin and then in a low voice said to Bob:
“Would you mind waiting here a moment?”