on of seventy pistols between them, to say
nothing of two blackjacks, there seemed indeed very little for the
speakers to worry about. But for Scout Harris, whose whole stock of
ammunition consisted of a remnant of sandwich and the almost naked core
of an apple, there seemed much to worry about.

Pee-wee realized now that he was awake and being borne along at an
excessive rate of speed. He knew that he was in Bartlett's big Hunkajunk
car and that the dark figures with all the firearms on the front seat
were not Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett.

Trembling, he spread the robe so as the more completely to cover his
small form including his head. For a moment he had a wild impulse to
cast this covering off and scream, or at least, to jump from the
speeding car. But a peek from underneath the robe convinced him of the
folly of this. To jump would be to lose his life; to scream--well, what
chance would he have with two bloodthirsty robbers armed with seventy
pistols and two blackjacks? There were few boy scouts who could despatch
an apple core with such accuracy of aim as W. Harris, but of what avail
is an apple core against seventy pistols?

He could not hear all that was said on the front seat but the fragments
of talk that he did hear were alarming in the last degree.

"--best way to handle them," said one of those dark figures.

"I've got a couple of dead ones to worry about," said the other.

Pee-wee curled up smaller under the robe and hardly breathed. Indeed two
dead ones was something to worry about. Suppose--suppose _he_ should be
the third!

"One for me, but I'm not worrying about him," said the other.

"We'll get away with it," his companion commented.

Then followed some talk which Pee-wee could not hear, but he felt
certain that it was on their favorite topic of murder. Then he overheard
these dreadful, yet comparatively consoling words:

"Trouble with him is he always wants to kill; he's gun crazy. Take them
if you want to, but what's the use killing? That's what I said to him."

"Steal--"

"Oh sure, that's just what I told him," the speaker continued; "steal
up--"

"Step on it," the other interrupted, "we're out in the country now."

The big super six Hunkajunk car darted forward and Scout Harris could
hear the purring of the big engine as the machine sped along through the
solemn darkness. A momentary, cautious glimpse from under the big robe
showed him that they were already far from the familiar enviro