we get past. A great deal depends on our speed."

"So it does on mine," was the reply. "Ef I git t' market late
I'll have t' stay all night, an' spend money on a hotel bill."

"I'll pay it! I'll pay your bill if you'll only pull out!"
cried Mr. Damon. "I'll give you a hundred dollars!"

He suddenly ceased speaking. From the bushes along the road
sprang several ragged, masked figures. Each one, aiming his
weapon at Tom, said in a low voice, that could not have been
heard by the driver of the hay wagon:

"Slow up your machine, young feller! We want to speak with you,
and don't you make a loud noise, or it won't be healthy for you!"

"Why of all the-!" began Mr. Damon, but another of the footpads
leveling his weapon at the eccentric man growled:

"Dry up, if you don't want to get shot!"

Mr. Damon subsided. Discretion was very plainly the better part
of valor. Tom had shut off the current. The load of hay continued
on ahead. Tom thought perhaps the driver of it might have been in
collusion with the thieves, to cause the auto to slow up.

"What do you want with us?" asked the young inventor, trying to
speak calmly, but finding it a hard task, with a revolver pointed
at him.