“Jump ’em!” shouted Frank as he threw himself upon the first fellow, floundering in the road.

“I’m on!” echoed Jerry, suiting the action to the words by propelling himself straight at the second motorcycle thief.

This fellow happened to have come through his fall without getting hurt.  The consequence was, he felt disposed to put up a much better fight than his confused companion, upon whose prostrate form Frank had straddled.

He rolled over once or twice with remarkable agility, causing Jerry to miss his guess when he thought to drop on him.  Then, scrambling to his knees, the man, who turned out to be a rough-looking chap, indeed, pulled something out of his pocket, which he aimed at the two boys about to pounce upon him.

“Keep back, you!” he roared, his mouth being half filled with dirt after he had plowed up the earth of the roadway with his face.

“He’s got a pistol!” shrieked Will, who was fingering his camera nervously from a point somewhat in the rear; and they immediately heard the little suggestive click that announced the pressure of a finger on the trigger.

Bluff was the quick-witted one on this occasion.  He had his stick upraised at the time, ready to strike.  Instead, he sent it from him suddenly with all his power, and as the cudgel was no light one, when it struck the extended arm of the kneeling thief the shock was so great that the shining object he had been gripping was hurled about five feet away.

Jerry instantly took occasion to possess himself of the same.  The man was nursing his wounded arm and muttering to himself, his face screwed up with pain.

“Talk to me about your quick work!  What could beat that, fellows?” cried Jerry as he stood over the grunting and disgusted rascal who had attempted to hold them off.

“What had we better do with ’em?” asked Bluff, frowning at the several scratches upon his machine caused by the accident.

“Any damage done?” asked Frank.

“Well, this man here has a sore arm, I guess; and the one you’re sitting on looks as if his face might be a map, from the scratches,” replied Jerry.

“Oh!  I mean the machines,” laughed Frank.

“Nothing serious here.  How about yours, Will?” answered Bluff.

“Mine seems to be all right.  They weren’t going fast enough to cause a real wreck.  A little paint will fix it up,” was the answer Will made.

“Do you know either of these fellows?” went on Frank.

The boys took a better look at the men.

“Why, the one with the scratched face is Hank Brady, I’m sure.  He used to live in Centerville.  The other is a stranger to me,” remarked Bluff.

“Well, I’ve seen him before.  He was working in the office of the town paper as a tramp compositor a week ago.  I suppose he got uneasy, and wanted to be on the move again, and seeing a fine chance for hooking a couple of motorcycles, they yielded to temptation.  If we took them back they’d be locked up for this little job,” observed Frank sternly.