"I'll send the
police after you."
Mark couldn't understand. Then a glance down at his ragged garments
showed him what was the matter.
"Wait! Hold on, Dick!" he cried, running forward. "I'm Mark Sampson!
I've had a terrible time! I was captured by that mysterious man, and
he's got my clothes. I must get home quick!"
Dick heard, but scarcely understood. However, he comprehended that his
friend was in trouble, and he wanted to help him. He slowed up, and
Mark reached him.
"Lend me your motorcycle, Dick," begged Mark. "I must get home in a
hurry to unmask a scoundrel. I'll leave your machine for you at our
house. I won't hurt it. I'm in a hurry! Get off!"
Somewhat dazed, Dick dismounted, and Mark climbed into the saddle. He
began to pedal, and then threw in the gasolene and spark. The cycle
chugged off.
"I'll leave it for you at our house," Mark called back. "I'm going on a
trip to the moon, and I don't want to be late."
He was fast disappearing in a cloud of dust, while Dick, gazing after
him, remarked:
"Well, I always thought those fellows were crazy to go off in
projectiles and things like that, and now I'm sure of it.
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