“I hope you won’t do anything of the kind, kids,” said the fellow whose arm had been stung by Bluff’s stick.  “We only wanted to have a lark with you.  Sure you don’t think we’d be fools enough to run away with such valuable things as them motorcycles, when the telephone would get us at the next town?  It was done for fun, but I reckon we paid the piper, all right,” and he scowled at Bluff as he spoke, nursing his arm as though it were still painful.

Frank laughed.  He was not of a vindictive nature.  Besides, it did seem as though the two fellows had been punished enough already.

“No matter, it was a mean trick, and you deserve all you got.  Get up, Hank.  You took a lovely cropper that time.  Where did you learn how to run a motorcycle?” he asked, helping the prisoner to his feet.

“I was a chauffeur a little time back.  Sure we never thought to run off with the gas-wheels.  Saw you comin’ along, and Flimsy said it would be a good joke to make you fellers think somebody was sick in the woods.  Then, when we seen you all go by, I said to him, ’Let’s run a couple of them machines down the road a bit, just to tease the boys.’  Flimsy he rode one once in his travels, and so we jumped on.  The rest is history, and I got the map that goes along with it, on me face.”

“What say, boys?  Shall we let it pass?” asked Frank, winking at his chums.

Jerry, for reply, started to fire the revolver he held, until the entire six shots had been discharged.

“Here!  Take your gun, mister, and next time don’t be so quick to pull it on a stranger.  Think what would happen to you if you’d fired and hit one of us?  Some time you may even be glad that Bluff, here, was so quick with his stick.”

He handed the empty weapon over to the tramp printer, who let his head fall, as though really ashamed of his action.

The boys started back to where the other machines had been left, while the two men slunk into the shelter of the woods, to patch up their hurts as best they might.

“Say! that was a queer ending to a rescue, wasn’t it?” asked Bluff.

“I only hope my picture comes out all right.  It ought to show Frank sitting on top of Hank, while Bluff and Jerry surround the other tramp, who is on his knees, aiming his old gun.  Then my machine is lying there.  Fellows, what need of words to explain what happened?” chuckled the gratified Will.

Whenever he succeeded in securing a coveted picture the ardent photographer was the happiest boy in the county.  His pleasure caused him to fairly bubble over with good nature.

“Tell me about that, will you!” said Jerry, pretending to scorn such an exhibition of joy over so trivial a matter.  “Why, you’d think the chap had knocked over some big game, to hear him chatter.”

“And so he had,” declared Frank quickly, “according to his light.  All of us are not made alike, Jerry.  One man’s food is poison to another.  You and I are fond of fishing and shooting, but Will is more of an artist.  He delights in stalking the timid deer in the close season, and shooting him with his camera.  Lots of people believe his way of securing pleasure beats ours all hollow.”