t for him.
"Where in the world did he go to?" queried Old Tilly, laughing. "He disappeared like a streak of lightning!"
"I see him--there, under that tree!" cried Jot, waving a salute. "He's lying down and enjoying life."
But it was a tired old man under the tree, and, from his forlorn face, he did not seem to be "enjoying life." He was very old, very shabby, very tired. His unkempt figure had collapsed feebly by the way apparently. What astonished the boys was the wheel that lay on its side near him. He did not look like a wheelman.
"Hold on. Old Till, I say!" called Jot in sudden excitement, forging ahead to his side. "I say, that looks like our wheel--mine and Kent's! I guess I know our wheel!"
Jot was riding the borrowed machine. Kent had the one they owned jointly.
"You're right, sonny; it looks that way!" rejoined Old Tilly, excited in his turn. "But we can't pounce on it and cut, you know. How do we know what Kent's up to?"
Jot grunted derisively. "Proba
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