“No; but I wish you wouldn’t mention my name, Mr. Appleson.  I—­I don’t like—­”

“Nonsense, Featherton.  No one can hear us.  But I’m afraid you’ve done for the chap.  I didn’t want him harmed.”

“Oh, I guess Featherton knows how to do it, Appleson,” commented the third man.  “He’s had experience that way, eh, Featherton?”

“Yes, Mr. Morse; but if you please I wish you wouldn’t mention—­”

“All right, Featherton, I know what you mean,” rejoined the man addressed as Morse.  “Now let’s see if we have drawn a blank or not.  I think he has with him the very thing we want,”

“Doesn’t seem to be about his person,” observed Appleson, as he carefully felt about the clothing of the unfortunate Tom.

“Very likely not.  It’s too bulky.  But there’s his motor-cycle over there.  It looks as if what we wanted was on the back of the saddle.  Jove, Featherton, but I think he’s coming to!”

Tom stirred uneasily and moved his arms, while a moan came from between his parted lips.

“I’ve got some stuff that will fix him!” exclaimed the man addressed as Featherton, and who had been operating the automobile.  He took something from his pocket and leaned over Tom.  In a moment the young inventor was still again.

“Quick now, see if it’s there,” directed Morse, and Appleson hurried over to the machine.

“Here it is!” he called.  “I’ll take it to our car, and we can get away.”

“Are you going to leave him here like this?” asked Morse.

“Yes; why not?”

“Because some one might have seen him come in here, and also remember that we, too, came in this direction.”

“What would you do?”

“Take him down the road a way and leave him.  We can find some shed near a farmhouse where he and his machine will be out of sight until we get far enough away.  Besides, I don’t like to leave him so far from help, unconscious as he is.”

“Oh, you’re getting chicken-hearted,” said Appleson with a sneer.  “However, have your way about it.  I wonder what has become of Jake Burke?  He was to meet us in Centreford, but he did not show up.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised if he had trouble in that tramp rig he insisted on adopting.  I told him he was running a risk, but he said he had masqueraded as a tramp before.”

“So he has.  He’s pretty good at it.  Now, Simpson, if you will—­”

“Not Simpson!  I thought you agreed to call me Featherton,” interrupted the chauffeur, turning to Morse and Appleson.

“Oh, so we did.  I forgot that this lad met us one day, and heard me call you Simpson,” admitted Morse.  “Well, Featherton it shall be.  But we haven’t much time.  It’s stopped raining, and the roads will soon be well traveled.  We must get away, and if we are to take the lad and his machine to some secluded place, we’d better be at it.  No use waiting for Burke.  He can look out after himself.  Anyhow, we have the model now, and there’s no use in him hanging around Swift’s shop, as he intended to do, waiting for a chance to sneak in after it.  Appleson, if you and Simpson—­I mean Featherton—­will carry young Swift, I’ll shove his wheel along to the auto, and we can put it and him in.”