But the figure, whose hand was done up in voluminous bandages, did not come out, and Jack wondered the more at what he thought was a growing strangeness on the part of his chum. Jack, followed by Andy and Washington, raced off after the rooster, while the two professors, somewhat amused, rather chaffed at the delay. But afterward they were glad of it. "Just my luck!" muttered the bandaged one. "This delay comes at the wrong time. Why don't they go on without that confounded rooster? If we stay here too long, that fellow Mark may get loose and spoil the whole thing, or Jenkins may go and release him before the time set. It would be just like Jenkins! I've a good notion to start the projectile myself. I know how to operate the Cardite motor. Only I suppose those two professors are on guard in the engine room. I'll have to wait until they catch that rooster, I guess, but I'd like to wring his neck!" The chase after the fowl was kept up. "I've got him now!" cried Jack a little later, as the fowl, evidently now much exhausted, ran into another fence corner, where Jack caught him, and shut him up in the coop in the projectile. "Yo' suttinly am de mos' contrary-minded specimen ob de chicken fambly dat I eber seed," observed Washington, breathing heavily, for his run had winded him. "Well, are we all ready to start now?" asked Professor Henderson. "No more live stock loose, is there, Jack?" "I think not." "Where's Mark? Wasn't he helping you catch the rooster?" "No, he's inside. Shall I seal the door?" "Yes, and I'll tell Professor Roumann that we're about to start. All ready for the moon trip!" Jack was pulling the steel portal toward him. An eager face, peering from a port, waited anxiously for the tremor which would indicate that the projectile had left the earth. In another moment they would be off. But what was that sound coming from down the highway. A steady chug-chug--a sort of roar, as of a battery of rapid-fire guns going off in double relays! And, mingled with the explosions, there was a voice shouting: "Wait! Hold on! Don't go without me! I'm Mark Sampson! Don't start the projectile!" "Somebody must be in a mighty hurry on a motorcycle," thought Jack, as he paused a moment before fastening the door. Then the shouts came to his ears. "Mark Sampson!" he cried. Again came the cry: "Wait! Wait! Don't go without me! You've got that mysterious man on board!" "Mark Sampson!" murmured Jack again. "That's his voice sure enough! I wonder--can it be possible--that man--with his head all bandaged up--his queer actions--I--I----" Words failed the youth. Throwing wide open the door, he sprang out of the projectile. A moment later there dashed into the yard, where the great projectile rested, a strange figure astride of a puffing motorcycle. The figure was torn and, ragged, and the nondescript garments were covered with dust, for Mark had had a fall. But there was no mistaking the face that peered eagerly forward.