Bobbie handed it over. Don thrust it in his pocket and was off.
Shading his eyes, Bobbie watched wheel and rider fly down the road. A hand touched his shoulder.
"What's Don rushing off for?" Ted asked.
Bobbie told about Tim's journey to Danger Mountain. Ted's eyes snapped.
"Think Don'll catch him?" he asked.
"Sure he will."
"I hope," said the captain, "I hope he gives him a beating to remember."
But Don, as he pedaled down the road, was not thinking of fight. Into the Turnpike he raced at an angle of forty-five degrees. The dry dust sifted up from under the spinning tires. It powdered his legs, and burned his eyes, and parched his throat.
Half an hour later he came to where Christie's Brook crossed the Pike. It was clean water, and safe. He threw himself on his stomach and reached down with his lips. His whole body cried out to him to drink, drink, drink. But he was too wise a scout not to know the dangers of such a course. He rinsed his mouth and throat, and swallowed a few drops, mounted again and rode off.
Another twenty minutes, and he came slowly to the top of a ridge. Down below dark forms moved along the road. He gripped the handle-bars hard and coasted.