"Perhaps he's punctured," suggested Grim; "anyhow, we hang on to Jack."

Rather puzzled at the non-appearance of Acton, they kept the first-comer
well in view as he pedalled hard for Westcote.

"That's Jack right enough," said Rogers; "and we'll have to leg it or
he'll slip us. Jove! he's captured a wheel with a vengeance. Hear it
hum."

The quartette strung down the hill full pelt, but when they got to the
bottom the cyclist was a good hundred yards ahead. His pursuers came to a
dead stop.

"May as well go home now," said Grim, in great disgust. "We can't dog him
now, and anyhow it isn't Pettigrew's pheasants that Jack's after: he's
gone past the woods. What a bone-shaker he's captured. Hear the spokes
rattlin'."

"Not so quick, Grimmy. He's wheeling into that little Westcote inn. We'll
run him down now."

The rider had indeed dismounted nearly a quarter mile ahead, and
instantly the Amorians were stringing down the road again. Before the
door of the little inn they found a bicycle propped up drunkenly against
the wall, and the Amorians, pumped though they were, had breath enough
left to explode over Bourne's machine. It was a "solid" of
pre-diamond-frame days, guiltless of enamel or plating, and handle-bars
of width generous enough for a Dutch herring-boat's bow.