Degger knew the pursuer was there, as was shown by his climbing upon the seat and looking over the crushed-back hood of the car. He motioned Ralph away. If the bigger car had to slow down there might be a collision. But Endicott knew exactly what he was about. He wanted to worry the driver of the big automobile. His was the speedier machine of the two, and he knew how to handle it to a hair. As Burtwell slowed down, Ralph shut off speed accordingly. The road was narrow here, and he waited for a wider stretch of it before proceeding with a plan he had. "Get back!" yelled Conny Degger, gesticulating with his hand. Grimly Endicott held to his course. Burtwell slowed still more. They came to the wider piece of road for which Ralph had been waiting. He pulled out from behind Burtwell’s car and went past like the wind. There was less than a mile on which to maneuver, and it was a lonely piece of road. For twenty seconds the roadster dashed ahead with a thuttering roar of its exhaust. Then Ralph shut off, applied the brakes cautiously and, just as he was stopping, turned the car squarely to block the road. Burtwell’s horn emitted a scared squawk. He came to a stop with clashing gears and Burtwell himself spouting profanity. "What do you mean, you crazy fool?" he bawled, hopping out from behind the wheel when his car had stopped with its radiator almost touching the mudguard of Ralph’s roadster. "I have no business with you, Burtwell," Ralph replied, carelessly tossing his gloves and the cap and mask into his driving seat as he stepped from his own car. "My business is with Degger." "What kind of a hold-up is this, anyway?" demanded Burtwell blusteringly. "Do you want to talk to this fellow, Conny?" "I haven’t got a bit of use for him," declared Degger, remaining in the seat. Ralph’s smile was grim enough. "I’ve only one use for you, Degger," he said. "I’m going to mop up a part of this road with you. Get out and take your medicine." "What’s this?" snapped Burtwell. "You ruffian! Get your car out of my way and let us pass, or I’ll show you something altogether new." "Keep out of this, Burtwell," advised Ralph quietly, yet never losing sight of the promoter. "I am going to give Degger the thrashing of his young sweet life." "What for?" demanded Burtwell. "He knows. Perhaps it is because I don’t like the color of his tie—or the cut of his coat—or that hat he wears. In any case, it is going to be just as good a thrashing as though I had the best reason in the world—— "Ah! Would you?" Burtwell’s hand had gone to his hip and he started to draw something from his pocket. Ralph stooped, leaped forward, and drove his right shoulder into the fellow’s midriff as he wound his long arms tightly about his waist. Endicott had not played tackle on the scrub team for nothing!