just so much nearer
the club. Dismounting at last, a pine-covered knoll, with a brook
bubbling below, attracts them; and, seated on the brown pine-needles,
the brother and sister talk over their adventures, and wonder how far
ahead the others may be. Suddenly Starrett, who faces the road, drops
his hands to his side with an exclamation of surprise.

"What now?" says Charley, looking quickly around, A glance makes her a
partner in Starrett's astonishment; for, over the main road they have
just now regained, come one, two, three, four tricycles, their
glittering spokes flashing in the sun. They see Joe Marston's dusky face
and stalwart figure, and behind him they catch the flutter of garnet and
blue--the colors of the club. Occasionally a head in the procession
turns to look expectantly behind.

Starrett and Charley keep close in the shade of the pines, restraining a
laugh with difficulty.

"Here is a good place to stop, Joe," cries Cornelia Hadwin. "It's cool
and shady, and we can see the road. I think they should have caught up
with us by this time. Can anything have happened,--do you suppose?"

"Dunno, miss," answers Joe with a grave face. But as he dismounts to
wheel his machine up the knoll, he stops short with a sudden smoothing
out of all the perplexed lines from his dark brow. "Hi, dar!" he
exclaims. "Look-a yer, Miss Corney!"

Cornelia does look, and so do all the rest. There is a perfect chorus of
shrieks and laughter, a babel of voices, a torrent of questions.

"Oh, we travel, I assure you!" says Starrett. "We took a flying leap and
came in ahead of you."

"How did it happen? When did you pass us?" These and countless other
questions follow. Then all is explained, and at five o'clock the merry
six are on the road again, rolling along in lively style.

So, in single file, with Joe in advance, and Starrett bringing up the
rear, the club rides through the main street of Wareham, down the long
slant to the bridge over the Wareham river. The evening mist hangs low
along the stream; the bridge seems to stretch across the rushing tide
and end abruptly in mid-air. The soft, grayish opaque cloud hides the
farther shore from sight.

There are heads at doors and windows, and people on the street stop to
gaze. At first the girls feel a little abashed at so much attention. But
nobody is discourteous; Joe rides steadily on, and there is nothing to
do but to follow.

"I suppose we do look queer to them," says Mat