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But presently the matter went clean from his mind and this was the reason: A speed cop whose motorcycle stood inconspicuously around the corner of the garage, came forward and eyed the Ford sharply. He drew his little book from his pocket, turned a few leaves, found what he was looking for and eyed again the car.

"That's the feller," said the sheriff. "If you saw him that's the gang. That was Black Coventry to the letter. There ought to be two more of 'em and the gang would be complete. You can show us the way, can you?" The sheriff had one of his deputies with him at the hotel. He deputized two active young farmers who were present and the four started on horseback following Chick-chick's motorcycle.

If she, too, had been injured, why was she not with Dean? If she was not injured, why had she not communicated with the office? Who were the couple that had brought Dean to the doctor's office? Why had not the doctor taken their names and addresses? What part had the Hoffs played in the accident? Had they purposely run down the motorcycle?

Even with passion waning with every step toward the bathroom in a salvation of movement, his mind was preoccupied by wanting to reclaim the window and seat from the window and seat thief, so that he might let morning and movement pass through the orifices of his eyes to obstruct memory a morning with shanty stations as gateways to shanty towns, rice fields and banana orchards with coconut trees occasionally spewed in, thickets of verdant weeds and knee high grass, sickly palm trees and two-story shacks where the bottom halves had such high earthy foundations and the true houses were the upper portions where drying laundry hanging from ropes were the only ornaments apart from distant glimpses of vehicles and amorphous motorcycle taxi drivers on the main street of some rural town or another.

The money landed near the motorcycle and the officer picked it up, smoothed out the bill, glanced at it and looked through tightened lids at Casey. "Throwin' money around like a hootch-runner!" he sneered. "I guess you birds need lookn' after, all right. Git goin'!" Casey "got going." Twice on the way in the officer spurted up alongside and waved him down for speeding.

My motorcycle is named Uncle Sam. Did you win yet?" For answer they laughed and slapped him on the shoulder and repeated, "You're all right, kid!" "Looks as if Snipy must have had his eye on you, huh?" one of them observed. "Who's Snipy?" Tom asked. "Oh, that's mostly what he gets called," said someone, mimicking Tom's own phrase. "His rifle's named Tommy.

Three days later the belated French crew, who had met with mishap in Italy, came in, winning third prize. The Ross brothers were at work in the hangar when Bob Giddings, who had gone into town on his motorcycle after some more screws, came back waving the copy of the Daily Independent containing this last account. "Cartier and his bunch have arrived," he cried, springing from his machine.

I was still kind of afraid to marry any one, but being engaged was all right. I know we'd got along together, too, but then he got his with a motorcycle. "Kind of funny. He'd do anything on that machine. He'd jump clean over an auto and he'd leap a thirty-foot ditch and he was all set to pull a new one for Jeff Baird when it happened.

A minute later the way behind us was cut off by one of those interminably long, slow moving freight trains, and one the other side of the barrier was the impotent pursuer. But the time gained by this lucky incident merely postponed the inevitable end of the chase. When did a loaded car ever outrun a motorcycle?

Vaneman. "Mother, Dottie's all right," he said rapidly but gently. "Steel's got her, but they won't keep her long. Don't worry, we'll get her. It may take a week or it may take a year, but we'll bring her back," and leaping upon his motorcycle, he shattered all the speed laws on his way to Crane's house. "Mart!" he yelled, rushing into the shop, "they've got Dottie, in a bus made from our plans.