Had he not been handicapped by his lame ankle, Harry might have given
a good account of himself in a hand-to-hand fight with Graves, but, as it
was, the older boy's superior weight gave him almost his own way. Before
Jack, who was running up, could reach them, Graves threw Harry off. He
stood looking down on him for just a second.
"That's what you get for interfering, young Fleming!" he said. "There's
something precious queer about you, my American friend! I fancy you'll have
to do some explaining about where you've been to-night!"
Harry was struggling to his feet. Now he saw the papers in Graves' hand.
"You thief!" he cried. "Those papers belong to me! You've stolen them! Give
them here!"
But Graves only laughed in his face.
"Come and get them!" he taunted. And, before either of the scouts could
realize what he meant to do he had started one of the motorcycles, sprung
to the saddle, and started. In a moment he was out of sight, around a bend
in the road. Only the put-put of the motor, rapidly dying away, remained of
him. But, even in that moment, the two he left behind him were busy. Jack
sprang to the other motorcycle, and tried to start it, but in vain.
Something was wrong; the motor refused to start.
"That's what he was doing when I saw him first!" cried Harry, with a flash
of inspiration.
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