At any other time the ludicrous side of this situation would have appealed to Patsy, but just now he had his hands too full to consider it. Cricket had run into the barn, and the detective sprang to the door through which he had vanished. Just as Patsy reached the barn the bulldog, Tige, became a factor in the case. The dog was not so easily scared as the farmer and the rest of the household, and didn’t care particularly who he tackled, just so long as he tackled somebody. It happened that he came up with Patsy, as the latter was about to leap into the barn, caught him by the tails of his coat and pulled him backward. The instant Patsy recoiled, a pitchfork cleaved the air in the exact place his head had been an instant before. The detective grabbed the fork, wrenched it out of Cricket’s hands, and turned. “Good dog!” cried Patsy. “But that’s enough of it,” and he brought the handle of the fork around with terrific force. Tige was a bulldog, but he was sensible, and realized when he had enough. He was knocked end over end, and when he picked himself up he raced for the corn crib and tried to get inside with the hired man. As Patsy once more leaped to get into the barn and try conclusions with Cricket, a currycomb caught him in the shoulder. “Never touched me!” shouted Patsy. The next instant he and Cricket were having it rough and tumble on the barn floor. Patsy had strength, and science as well, and was not long in placing the robber in chancery. “That’ll do,” said Cricket; “you’re too many for me.” “Where are your guns?” demanded Patsy. “Dropped ’em,” panted Cricket. “They wasn’t any good, anyhow.” “Got a knife?” “No.” “You’re another!” Patsy thrust his hand into the breast of the robber’s coat and pulled out a knife in a leather sheath. After transferring the blade to his own pocket, he brought out the darbies and attached them to his prisoner’s wrists. “Now, get up,” he said, hanging on to the bracelets. Cricket arose. “Who are you?” he inquired. “One of Nick Carter’s men,” grinned Patsy. “I should think you’d know the brand by this time.” “The best thing we’ve done this trip is to fix Carter,” gloated Cricket. “You starred yourself at that, didn’t you?” returned the detective dryly. “You bet we did! Who was that duffer that ran your auto?” “Chickering Carter, the Little Giant’s right-hand man.” “And that cove in the water-soaked garments and minus the hat. You pulled him out of the river, didn’t you?” “Oh, no. He swam out and walked up the bank.” “But his hands and feet were tied!” “That’s no trick at all for Nick Carter.” Cricket gave a jump. “Nick Carter!” he gasped. “Was that man Nick Carter?” “Sure. Who did you think he was?” Cricket muttered an oath. “There’s no use in a lot of pinheads like us going up against Nick Carter,” he said. “When that sleuth enters a race it’s all over but paying the bets.”