“Oh, yes, we can go on, but we can’t make much speed. I’ll have to run in third. Fourth and fifth gears are all chewed up.” It was because of its five selective speeds that the electric runabout was such a wonderful machine. “Whoever did this made a little mistake,” chuckled Tom, for he had a saving sense of humor. “If they’d fixed it so the screw driver dropped into the lower gears we never could have started again once we stopped. As it is, we can go on, but we can’t make speed.” It did not take him long to cut out the two higher gearing mechanism attachments, and then the runabout proceeded again. Even at the lowered rate its speed was better than that of many gasoline automobiles. And in due time the head of the slope was reached. Before the searchers lay Cherry Valley which, they hoped, contained the Smith place and the captive Ned Newton. “Now, Tagg, show us the field where you saw the kite come down,” requested Tom when they were driving along a level road. “It’s about a mile farther on,” the tramp said, looking about for landmarks. “Yes, just about a mile.” This distance was soon covered, and when the car was stopped Tagg led the way into the field and showed where he had built a fire to roast ears of corn. The blackened ashes and the remains of his feast proved that, so far, he had spoken the truth. Then he showed just where he had picked up the broken kite, and some fragments of the brown-bag paper which bore Ned’s message were found among the hills of corn. “It looks as if we were on the right track,” said Mr. Damon. “I hope so,” murmured Tom. “Now to locate the Smith place.” “It’s south of here, about a mile and a half,” said the tramp. “’Tisn’t a very good road, though.” “That won’t keep us back,” declared Tom, and once more they were on the way. The runabout was doing fairly well in spite of the handicap of two stripped gears. Cherry Valley was rather a sparsely settled part of the country and as Tom and his friends advanced they noticed that it grew more and more deserted. They passed one ramshackle farmhouse and learned, on inquiry, that they were headed right for the old Smith homestead. “But they don’t nobody live there now, mister,” said a slattern of a woman who shuffled to the door in response to Tom’s knock. “They ain’t been nobody livin’ in the Smith place nigh onto four years now.” “That’s all right—we’ll find it I guess,” responded the young inventor, and once more he drove his electric car onward. Near the end of the valley and adjoining a patch of dense woods, they came upon the Smith house. It had once been the home of a prosperous farmer, but he had fallen upon evil days and the place had long been deserted. “That’s it!” cried Mr. Damon, catching sight of the old brick house. “There it is, three cherry trees, old stone well, and everything just as Ned described it.”