They were going at such a furious rate Pep knew that even if they passed anyone his shout would be incoherent and borne away on the wind. At any rate they were secure from pursuit except by an automobile like their own. He foresaw the fate of the little tin box—carried away with its precious contents by these criminals, himself abandoned in some lonely spot to find his way back home as best he might. A desperate resolve came into Pep’s mind, as glancing ahead he caught the glint of water. At the end of a steep incline a bridge spanned a small river. Pep got his free hand ready. Just as the front wheels of the machine struck the first timbers of the bridge, his hand shot out for the tin box in its pillow case covering, lying on the cushion between himself and his captor. It was all done quick as a flash. A grab, a whirl, a splash, and the hurling object disappeared beneath the calm waters just beyond the outer bridge rail. The man beside Pep uttered a shout. He was so taken aback at the unexpected event that he relaxed his hold on his captive. His cry had startled his companion at the wheel, who took it as a signal of warning of some sort, and he instantly shut down on speed. It was Pep’s golden opportunity. Before the man beside him could prevent it, he made a nimble spring out of the machine, landed on the planking of the bridge approach, stumbled, fell, and then, as a crash sounded, dived into a nest of shrubbery lining the stream. Pep did not wait to look back to trace the occasion of the crash. He heard confused shouts and knew that the two men had gotten into some trouble with the automobile. A light not over a hundred feet distant had attracted his attention. Pep darted forward. He ran into a barbed wire fence, then he crawled under it, and on its other side made out a farmhouse. The light came from the doorway of a big barn, where two persons, a man and a boy, were just unhitching a horse from a light wagon. “Mister!” cried Pep breathlessly, running up to the men, “two thieves had wrecked their automobile right at the bridge. They have stolen a lot of money and jewelry. They tried to carry me away with them.” “Run for my gun, Jabez,” ordered the farmer, roused at the sensational announcement. “Maybe they’re the fellows who broke in here last week when we were away at a neighbor’s.” The boy ran to the house. He soon reappeared with a clumsy double-barreled shotgun over his shoulder. “Arm yourselves,” directed the farmer, taking the weapon in one hand, the lantern in the other. His son picked up a rake and handed a pitchfork to Pep. Then the boys followed the farmer as he strode towards the road. The moonlight showed a wrecked automobile lying where it had been driven into a little clump of saplings—breaking them off two feet from the ground—and wedged in among the splintered branches. Evidently the amateur chauffeur had in his excitement made a turn at the wrong moment. “Where’s your robbers?” demanded the farmer.