keep down the river to the first bridge; and he had a sickening notion that the first bridge was a lot nearer ten miles away than five! Well, there was no help for it. Having gone so far, he would see the matter through――even if he had to keep right on to Chicago! He would show Warren Scott and his Vigilantes that when it came to results there were others! These musings were suddenly interrupted. The car was slowing down! At the cost of another ache Joe craned his head around the side of the tonneau. A short distance ahead was a broad illumination of white light and a blazon of red amidst it. They were approaching a roadside filling station and were going to stop! This, reflected Joe, was no place for him, for the gasoline tank was under his feet. As the car came to a pause he jumped down and scuttled across the road and into the black shadows of the trees. From a small building beyond the pump with its brilliant red sign atop, came a man who after an exchange of words with the men in the car, set about refilling the tank. Joe watched and waited and thought hard. If he was to regain his place he must be quick about it and yet not be seen. That wouldn’t be so easy. If the filling station man saw him――he broke off abruptly. His gaze, wandering beyond the pump, had caught sight through one lighted window of a telephone on the wall of the little building. Why go any further? Here was his chance. He would tell his story and get the man to telephone to the first town beyond! A moment later the red tail light was growing smaller down the road and Joe was confronting the man from the doorway, stammering badly in his eagerness. The man stared back at him, startled. “What?” he asked. “You want gas?” Joe shook his head and tried again. “Telephone,” he ejaculated. “Police!” The man brought the chair down on all four legs with a bump and waved a hand. “Help yourself,” he directed. “What’s up? Accident?” Joe shook his head again. “You do it,” he begged. “I――I haven’t got enough breath!” “All right,” agreed the other good-naturedly. “What do you want?” “Telephone the nearest town,” panted the boy, “and tell the police to stop that car, the one that just went by here. The number’s 21,678. Tell them it’s full of bicycles stolen in Central City, and――” The man paused with the receiver off the hook, shook his head and laughed. “You’re crazy, kid,” he jeered. “That car had furniture in it. I know the fellows. They’ve stopped here two――three times lately. Who’s been stringing you?” “Honest, it’s so!” protested Joe. “I’ve followed them all the way from their house. They’re bicycle thieves. The furniture’s just to fool folks. The bicycles are underneath. I know!” The man looked less assured. “Well, that’s funny,” he said. “Hold on, what was the number?” “21,678,” answered Joe. “Wrong, son. That car’s number is 5,906. I’ve seen it two――three times and I remember. I’ve got a habit of noticing number plates.”