Blake fairly leaped toward the shed where he had wheeled the motor cycle.  In another instant he and Joe were trundling it down the gravel walk to the road.

As they reached the highway they could hear, growing fainter and fainter, the “thump-thud,” of the hoofs of the runaway horse.

Joe held the machine upright while Blake vaulted to the forward saddle and began to work the pedals to start the motor.  The cylinders were still hot from the recent run, and at the first revolution the staccato explosions began.

“Jump up!” yelled Blake in his chum’s ear—­shouting above the rattle and bang of the exhaust, for the muffler was open.

Joe sprang to leather, but before he was in his seat Blake was letting in the friction clutch, and a moment later, at ever gathering speed, the shining motor cycle was speeding down the road to the rescue.  Would Joe and Blake be in time?

CHAPTER II

ON THE BRINK

“What—­what’s your plan, Blake?” yelled Joe into his chum’s ear, as he sat behind him on the jolting second saddle of the swaying motor cycle.

“What do you mean?” demanded Blake, half turning his head.

“I mean how are you going to stop that runaway, or rescue those fellows?”

“I haven’t thought, yet, but if we can get ahead of the horse we may be able to stop him before he gets to the road-barrier or to the dangerous turn.”

“That’s right!” panted Joe, the words being fairly jolted out of him.  “Head him off—­I see!”

“Hold fast!” exclaimed Blake, as the conductor does when a trolley car goes around a curve.  “Hold fast!”

There was need of the advice, for a little turn in the road was just ahead of them and Blake intended to take it at almost top speed.

Bumping, swaying, jolting, spitting fire and smoke, with a rattle, clatter and bang, on rushed the motor cycle on its errand of rescue.

“Hark!” cried Joe, close to Blake’s ear, “Listen!”

“Can’t, with all this racket!” yelled back Blake, for he had opened the throttle to gain a little increase of power.  “What’s the matter?”

“I thought I heard the horse.”

“Hearing him won’t do any good,” observed Blake grimly.  “We’ve got to see him and get ahead!”

And he turned on a little more gasoline.

While Blake and Joe are thus speeding to the rescue of the men in the runaway, we will take a few moments to tell our new readers something about the boys who are to figure prominently in this story.

Joe Duncan and Blake Stewart were called the “Moving Picture Boys,” for an obvious reason.  They took moving pictures.  With their curious box-like cameras, equipped with the thousand feet of sensitive celluloid film, and the operating handle, they had risen from the ranks of mere helpers to be expert operators.  And now they were qualified to take moving pictures of anything from a crowd, shuffling along the street, to a more complicated scene, such as a flood, earthquake or volcanic eruption.  And, incidentally, I might mention that they had been in all three of these last situations.