closed after them and they were hidden from sight.

On came the three farmers, waving their effective weapons, the
pistol shots still ringing out from the load of hay. Tom could
not understand it, and could see no one firing--could detect no
smoke.

"Are they gone? Did they rob ye?" asked the foremost of the
trio, a burly, grizzled farmer. Bust my buttons, but I guess we
skeered 'em all right!"

"Bless my shoe buttons, but you certainly have!" cried Mr.
Damon, descending from the automobile, and wringing the hand of
the farmer, while Tom, thrust the bag of money under his legs and
waited further developments. The pistol shots rang out until one
of the men called:

"That'll do, Bub! We've skeered 'em like Mrs. Zenoby's pet cat!
You needn't crack that whip any more."

"Whip!" cried Tom. "Was that a whip?"

"That's what it was," explained the leading farmer. "Bub
Armstrong, my nephew, can crack it to beat th' band," and as if
in proof of this there emerged from behind the load of hay a
small lad, carrying a large whip, to which he gave a few trial
cracks, like pistol shots, as if to show his ability.

"It's all right, Bub," his uncle assured him. "We made 'em
run."