Three Young Knights | Page 4

the old woman
pumping into it didn't look as if lugging water agreed with her. Besides,
I wanted a drink."
"You didn't get one," retorted Kent, wisely.
Jot cast a sidewise glance upon him.

"I said I wanted one, didn't I? Anybody can want a drink."
"And take your remedy. Dose: lug one pail o' water for an old woman.
If not successful, repeat in ten min--"
Jot made a rapid spurt and left his teaser behind. When Old Tilly had
come abreast of him again, he reached out a brotherly hand and
bestowed a hearty pat on his arm.
"Good boy!" he said, and unconsciously his voice was like father's,
miles back in the kitchen doorway. It was the way father would have
said it.
"That's the way to do. We'll pick up 'errands' to do for folks. What's the
use of being knights?"
And Old Tilly's turn came next, in the way of driving the cows out of
somebody's corn patch and propping up the broken fence. If it took but
a few minutes, what of that? It saved a bent old man's rheumatic leg's,
and the gay whistle that went with it drifted into an open window and
pleased a little fretful child.
"My turn next!" shouted Kent, gliding away from them out of sight
over the brow of a hill.
"Good luck to you!" called Jot. "We're going into camp to take a bite.
No use being in such a rush."
"When you come my way, drop in!" floated back faintly. They tilted
their wheels against trees and threw themselves down in the shade to
rest. Jot was ravenous with hunger.
"Cakes are all right to begin on," he said, regarding mother's bountiful
store with approval. "But when I strike the next store you'll see the
crackers and cheese fly!"
"I don't mind taking a hand in the scrimmage myself!" laughed Old
Tilly, munching a fat cake. "I say, wasn't Kent foolish to go scooting

off like that? Might as well have begun easy. I move we ride nights and
mornings mostly, and loaf noons. There's a moon, 'silver mo-oo-on'--"
His voice trailed lazily into song. It was pleasant lounging in the shade
and remembering the hay was all in and adventures ahead.
An hour or so later they moved on at a leisurely pace, looking for Kent.
The general direction had been agreed upon, so they experienced no
anxiety. It added to the fun to hunt for him.
"Where in the world did he go to?" queried Old Tilly, laughing. "He
disappeared like a streak of lightning!"
"I see him--there, under that tree!" cried Jot, waving a salute. "He's
lying down and enjoying life."
But it was a tired old man under the tree, and, from his forlorn face, he
did not seem to be "enjoying life." He was very old, very shabby, very
tired. His unkempt figure had collapsed feebly by the way apparently.
What astonished the boys was the wheel that lay on its side near him.
He did not look like a wheelman.
"Hold on. Old Till, I say!" called Jot in sudden excitement, forging
ahead to his side. "I say, that looks like our wheel--mine and Kent's! I
guess I know our wheel!"
Jot was riding the borrowed machine. Kent had the one they owned
jointly.
"You're right, sonny; it looks that way!" rejoined Old Tilly, excited in
his turn. "But we can't pounce on it and cut, you know. How do we
know what Kent's up to?"
Jot grunted derisively. "Probably he's given it to the old duffer for a
birthday present--hundredth anniversary!" he scoffed. "That would be
taking his turn at doing knight-errands. Let's go right on and not disturb
the poor old man--"

"Let's have sense!" remarked Old Tilly, briefly. "We'll forge on ahead
and hunt Kent up before we arrest tramps for bike-lifting. When he says
he's been robbed it'll be time to holler 'Stop, thief!'"
"Yes, come on!" Jot called back as he shot ahead. "I haven't a doubt but
we'll find Kentie's got his bike tucked away all safe in the toe of his
stocking!"
They came almost instantly into the outskirts of a snug little settlement.
The road was flanked on both sides by neat white houses. Trig little
children scurried out of their way, cheering shrilly. Somewhere there
was music. [Transcriber's note: the word "trig", above, is as it appears
in the original book.]
"Hark!" Jot cried.
"Hark yourself! That's a good hand-organ," Old Tilly said; and he
hummed the familiar tune, and both wheels sped on to the time of it, as
it seemed. The music grew louder. "Look up in that dooryard, will you!
Jot Eddy, look at the chap that's grinding it!"
Jot uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
CHAPTER III.
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