ping a sharp watch through
the hedges for their quarry. When they saw two well-known figures, feet
on the rest, coasting merrily down and head for Westcote, they all drew a
long breath and girded up their loins for the race.

"With luck and the short cuts," said Grim, stepping out, "we may just see
'em sneak into Pettigrew's woods."

"And we've got a mile in hand too," said Wilson.

The cronies ran tightly together, nursing their wind and keeping well
screened from eyeshot from the road, not that either Acton, or Bourne
dreamed that their afternoon's run was being dogged by anyone. From their
numerous short cuts the scouts were necessarily out of view from the
road, but they marked the two cyclists from point to point and themselves
headed up hill and down dale straight for Westcote. They felt pretty well
winded by now, as they stood panting in a breezy spinney, watching for
the appearance of their quarry on the brown road beneath them.

"There they are," gasped Wilson, pretty blown.

"There's only one," said Rogers, "and it is that young owl Bourne, too.
He's shed Acton."

"Perhaps he's punctured," suggested Grim; "anyhow, we hang on to Jack."

Rather puzzled at the non-appearance of Acton, they kept the first-comer
well in view as he pedalled hard for Westcote.

"That's Jack right enough," said Rogers; "and we'll have to leg it or
he'll slip us. Jove! he's captured a wheel with a vengeance. Hear it
hum."

The quartette strung down the hill full pelt, but when they got to the
bottom the cyclist was a good hundred yards ahead. His pursuers came to a
dead stop.

"May as well go home now," said Grim, in great disgust. "We can't dog him
now, and anyhow it isn't Pettigrew's pheasants that Jack's after: he's
gone past the woods. What a bone-shaker he's captured. Hear the spokes
rattlin'."

"Not so quick, Grimmy. He's wheeling into that little Westcote inn. We'll
run him down now."

The rider had indeed dismounted nearly a quarter mile ahead, and
instantly the Amorians were stringing down the road again. Before the
door of the little inn they found a bicycle propped up drunkenly against
the wall, and the Amorians, pumped though they were, had breath enough
left to explode over Bourne's machine. It was a "solid" of
pre-diamond-frame days, guiltless of enamel or plating, and handle-bars
of width generous enough for a Dutch herring-boat's bow.

"There's no false pride about Jack," said Grim, gloating over the wei