Hazel stood up and peered into the gathering darkness. "Yes; it looks like an auto. Perhaps some one got disabled, and had to leave the machine," she replied. "Perhaps," returned Cora, going along carefully. "It is an auto," declared Hazel presently, as they were almost upon the object in the roadway. "The auto stage!" exclaimed Cora. "Don't be frightened, Hazel," she hurried to say. "Paul is not in it. He must have gone on with the mail." Hazel sank down in the cushions and covered her eyes. Somehow she could not bear to look at the deserted auto stage. The other girls were coming along cautiously--they saw that something was the matter. The standing machine was directly in the road; it instantly struck Cora that this was strange. Who could have been so careless as to leave an unlighted auto in the roadway, and night coming on? She turned her wheel to guide the Whirlwind to one side, and then stopped. Bess was next, and she shut off the power from the Flyaway. "What is it?" asked Bess anxiously. Belle did not venture to leave the machine, but Hazel had bounded out of the Whirlwind almost before Cora had time to stop it. "Oh," exclaimed Hazel, "there are Paul's gloves. Where can he be?" "Perhaps playing a trick on us," suggested Cora, although she had little faith in the possibility. "I am sure he would not go far off and leave this expensive machine here." By this time all the other girls had reached the spot, and were now deliberating upon the abandoned auto. Suddenly a call--shrill and distinct--startled them. "That's Paul!" shrieked Hazel, turning instantly and dashing off in the direction from which the voice had come. Cora, Bess, Maud and Cecilia followed her. Over the wet fields, through briars and underbrush the girls ran, while the call was repeated; this time there being no possibility of mistake--it was Paul shouting. Breathless, the girls hurried on. With a sister's instinct Hazel never stumbled, but seemed to get over every obstacle like some wood sprite called to duty. "Oh, I'm all right, girls! Take your time!" came the voice in the woods. "All right!" repeated Hazel in uncertain tones. "Oh, look!" shrieked Cecilia. "Didn't I tell you it was a joke? Look!" What a sight! There, sitting on something like a stool, with a big cotton umbrella opened over his head, his eyes blinded with something dark, and his hands and feet made secure, was Paul Hastings, the chauffeur of the auto stage. "Whatever does this means?" asked Cora, hurrying to Hazel, who was now madly snatching the black silk handkerchief from her brother's eyes. "A prisoner of war," replied Paul rather unsteadily. "Glad you came, girls--there, sis, in my back pocket, you will find a knife. Just cut those carpet rags off my feet and hands." Cecilia found the pocket knife, and, more quickly than any boy might have done it, she severed the bonds, and Paul stretched out--free. "Well," he exclaimed, "this is about the limit!"