esistance you make, and we shoot--get that,
fellows?" he added to his followers, and they nodded grimly.

"Well," remarked Mr. Damon with an air of submission, "I only want to
warn you that you are acting illegally, and that you are perpetrating a
desperate crime."

"Oh, we know that all right," answered one of the men, and Tom gave a
start. He was sure he had heard that voice before. He tried to remember
it--tried to penetrate the disguise--but he could not.

"I'll give you ten seconds more to hand over that bag of money," went
on the leader. "If you don't, we'll take it and some of you may get
hurt in the process."

There seemed nothing else to do. With a white face, but with anger
showing in his eyes Mr. Damon reached down to get the valise. Tom had
retained his grip of the steering wheel, and the starting lever. He
hoped, at the last minute, he might see a chance to dash away, and
escape, but that load of hay was in the path. He noted that it was now
quite near, but the thieves paid no attention to it.

Tom might have reversed the power, and sent his machine backward, but
he could not see to steer it if he went in that direction, and he would
soon have gone into the ditch. There was nothing to do save to hand
over the cash, it seemed.

Mr. Damon had the bag raised from the car, and the leader of the
thieves was reaching up for it, when there came a sudden interruption.

From the load of hay there sounded a fusillade of pistol shots,
cracking out with viciousness. This was instantly followed by the
appearance of three men who came running from around the load of hay,
down the road toward the thieves. Each man carried a pitchfork, and as
they ran, one of the trio shouted:

"Right at 'em, boys! Jab your hay forks clean through the scoundrels!
By Heck, I guess we'll show 'em we know how t' tackle a hold-up gang as
well as the next fellow! Right at 'em now! Charge 'em! Stick your
forks right through 'em!" Again there sounded a fusillade of pistol
shots.

The thieves turned as one man, and glanced at the relief so
unexpectedly approaching. They gave one look at the three determined
looking farmers, with their sharp, glittering pitchforks, and then,
without a word, they turned and fled, leaping into the bushes that
lined the roadway. The underbrush 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