Lost on the Moon Part 14

"But it's several miles, and I can't walk very fast," murmured Mark.

"I'm too stiff and weak. How can I do it?"

He thought of making his way to the nearest farm house, and asking for the loan of a horse and carriage, but he looked so much like a tramp that no farmer would lend him a horse.

"And I need to make speed," he murmured.

At that moment he heard a noise down the road. It was a steady "chug-chug," like some distant motor-boat, but there was no water near at hand.

"A motorcycle!" exclaimed Mark. "Some one is coming on a motorcycle.

Oh, if I could only borrow it!"

He ran down into the road. He could see the rider now. To his joy it was d.i.c.k Johnson--the lad who had brought him the mysterious note.

"Hi d.i.c.k! d.i.c.k! hold on!" cried Mark.

The lad on the motor gave one glance at the ragged figure that had hailed him. Then he turned on more power to escape from what he thought was a savage tramp.

"Wait! Stop! I want that motorcycle!" cried Mark.

"Well, you're not going to get it!" yelled back d.i.c.k. "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, d.i.c.k!" 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!"

d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k," 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, d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k, 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. Going to the moon! Well, I only hope he doesn't take my motorcycle there!"

Mark sped on, turning the handle levers to get the last notch of speed out of the cycle. Would he be in time?

CHAPTER XIII

A DIREFUL THREAT

Perhaps Washington White's Shanghai rooster did not care to make the trip to the moon, or perhaps the fowl had not yet seen enough of this earth. At any rate, when he flew from the projectile, uttering loud crows, and landed some distance away, he began to run back toward the coop in the rear of the yard.

"Cotch him, cotch him!" yelled the colored man. "Dat's a valuable bird!"

"We'll get him when he goes in the coop," said Jack, who found it difficult to run and laugh at the same time.

"Shall I fire my rifle off and scare him?" asked Andy Sudds.

"No, you might kill him or scare him t' death," objected Washington.

"Come on, Mark, and help," cried Jack, looking toward the projectile, where a figure was peering from the gla.s.s-covered port of the main cabin.

But the figure, whose hand was done up in voluminous bandages, did not come out, and Jack wondered the more at what he thought was a growing strangeness on the part of his chum.

Jack, followed by Andy and Washington, raced off after the rooster, while the two professors, somewhat amused, rather chaffed at the delay.

But afterward they were glad of it.

"Just my luck!" muttered the bandaged one. "This delay comes at the wrong time. Why don't they go on without that confounded rooster? If we stay here too long, that fellow Mark may get loose and spoil the whole thing, or Jenkins may go and release him before the time set. It would be just like Jenkins! I've a good notion to start the projectile myself. I know how to operate the Cardite motor. Only I suppose those two professors are on guard in the engine room. I'll have to wait until they catch that rooster, I guess, but I'd like to wring his neck!"

The chase after the fowl was kept up.

"I've got him now!" cried Jack a little later, as the fowl, evidently now much exhausted, ran into another fence corner, where Jack caught him, and shut him up in the coop in the projectile.

"Yo' suttinly am de mos' contrary-minded specimen ob de chicken fambly dat I eber seed," observed Washington, breathing heavily, for his run had winded him.

"Well, are we all ready to start now?" asked Professor Henderson. "No more live stock loose, is there, Jack?"

"I think not."

"Where's Mark? Wasn't he helping you catch the rooster?"

"No, he's inside. Shall I seal the door?"

"Yes, and I'll tell Professor Roumann that we're about to start. All ready for the moon trip!"

Jack was pulling the steel portal toward him. An eager face, peering from a port, waited anxiously for the tremor which would indicate that the projectile had left the earth. In another moment they would be off.

But what was that sound coming from down the highway. A steady chug-chug--a sort of roar, as of a battery of rapid-fire guns going off in double relays! And, mingled with the explosions, there was a voice shouting:

"Wait! Hold on! Don't go without me! I'm Mark Sampson! Don't start the projectile!"

"Somebody must be in a mighty hurry on a motorcycle," thought Jack, as he paused a moment before fastening the door. Then the shouts came to his ears.

"Mark Sampson!" he cried.

Again came the cry: "Wait! Wait! Don't go without me! You've got that mysterious man on board!"

"Mark Sampson!" murmured Jack again. "That's his voice sure enough! I wonder--can it be possible--that man--with his head all bandaged up--his queer actions--I--I----"

Words failed the youth. Throwing wide open the door, he sprang out of the projectile. A moment later there dashed into the yard, where the great projectile rested, a strange figure astride of a puffing motorcycle. The figure was torn and, ragged, and the nondescript garments were covered with dust, for Mark had had a fall. But there was no mistaking the face that peered eagerly forward.