“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!’”