h a yell of startled anger, the man who bore the bleeding marks of
Johnny's fingers redoubled his speed and darted crazily for the
roadway. Before he had reached it the man by the car had leaped
swiftly to the wheel and rolled away.

From the forest came again the signal: "Where are you?"

Johnny groaned. Frantically he tried the rebel again. It readily spat
its answer this time, an instantaneous duplicate of shots.

"I'm here. What do you want?"

In the lightning glare the man ahead made off wildly across the fields.

Running, Johnny cocked his ears for the familiar assurance of one shot.

"All right," it would mean; "I only wanted to know where you are," but
it did not come.

Instead--two shots again in rapid succession--an interval--and then
another.

"I am in serious trouble," barked the signal in the forest. "Come as
fast as you can."

With a groan Johnny abandoned the chase and retraced his steps. Thus a
perverse Fate ever snipped the thread of an embryo adventure.

A light flickered dully among the trees to the east. Johnny cupped his
hands and yodeled. The light moved. A little later as he crashed
hurriedly through the underbrush, Diane called to him. She was holding
a lantern high above something on the ground, her face quite colorless.

"I'm glad you're here!" she said. "It's the aviator, Johnny. He's
hurt--"

The aviator stirred.

"He's comin' 'round," said Johnny peering down into the white face in
the aureole of lantern-light. "The rain in his face likely. . . .
Well, young fellow, what do you think of yourself, eh?"

"Not much," said Philip blankly and stared about him.

"Can you follow us to the camp fire yonder?" asked Diane
compassionately.

Philip, though evidently very dizzy, thought likely he could, and he
did. That his shoulder was wet and very painful, he was well aware,
though somehow he had forgotten why. Moreover, his head throbbed
queerly.

There came a tent and a bed and a blur of incidents.

Mr. Poynter dazedly resigned himself to a general atmosphere of
unreality.

CHAPTER X

ON THE RIDGE ROAD

At the Westfall farm as the electric vanguard of the storm flashed
brightly over the valley, the telephone had tinkled. In considerable
distress of mind Aunt Agatha answered it.

"I--I'm sure I don't know when he will be home," she said helplessly
after a while. . . . "He went barely a minute ago and very foolish
too, I said, with the storm coming.