Dan now stopped, not far from a clump of bushes. Down the road stood a stalled motor-car vaguely distinguishable in the dusk. Its occupant, or occupants had apparently gone to telephone for help. “You bet I made you out a ‘dippy,’” said Dickie with much satisfaction. A white light shone from Bob’s eyes. Then he shrugged his broad shoulders. “Good night,” he said curtly and turned to go. But at that instant the commodore emitted a low whistle and two men sprang out of the bushes. At the same moment the trio precipitated themselves, also, on Bob. It was a large load. He “landed” one or two on somebody and got one or two in return himself. Dickie rather forgot himself in the excitement of the moment and was unnecessarily forceful, considering the odds. But Bob was big and husky and for a little while he kept them all busy. His football training came in handy. Numbers, however, finally prevailed, and though he heaved and struggled, he had to go down. Then they sat on him, distributing themselves variously over his anatomy. “Thought I was giving you that charming little chat, just for the pleasure of your company, did you?” panted the commodore, from somewhere about the upper part of Bob? “Why, I was just leading you here.” “And he came like a lamb!” said Clarence, holding an arm. “Or a big boob!” from Dickie, who had charge of a leg. Bob gave a kick and it caught Dickie. The little man went bowling down the road like a ten-pin. But after that, there wasn’t much kick left in Bob. They tied him tight and bore him (or truth, trussed like a fowl), to the car. Some of them got in to keep him company. There wasn’t anything the matter with the car. It could speed up to about sixty, or seventy, at a pinch. It went “like sixty” now. “If he tries to raise a hullabaloo, toot your horn,” said the commodore, when he got his breath, to the driver. “At the same time I’ll wave my hat and act like a cut-up. Then they’ll only take us for a party of fuzzled joy-riders.” “I don’t think he’ll make much noise now,” shouted Dickie significantly, from behind. “We’ll jolly well see to that.” “How long will it take you to make the bug-house?” the commodore asked the man at the wheel. “We should reach the private sanatorium in less than an hour,” answered that individual. CHAPTER XIII—AN ENFORCED REST CURE