"Do you know either of these fellows?" went on Frank.

The boys took a better look at the men.

"Why, the one with the scratched face is Hank Brady, I'm sure. He used
to live in Centerville. The other is a stranger to me," remarked Bluff.

"Well, I've seen him before. He was working in the office of the town
paper as a tramp compositor a week ago. I suppose he got uneasy, and
wanted to be on the move again, and seeing a fine chance for hooking a
couple of motorcycles, they yielded to temptation. If we took them back
they'd be locked up for this little job," observed Frank sternly.

"I hope you won't do anything of the kind, kids," said the fellow whose
arm had been stung by Bluff's stick. "We only wanted to have a lark with
you. Sure you don't think we'd be fools enough to run away with such
valuable things as them motorcycles, when the telephone would get us at
the next town? It was done for fun, but I reckon we paid the piper, all
right," and he scowled at Bluff as he spoke, nursing his arm as though
it were still painful.

Frank laughed. He was not of a vindictive nature. Besides, it did seem
as though the two fellows had been punished enough already.

"No matter, it was a mean trick, and you deserve all you got. Get up,
Hank. You took a lovely cropper that time. Where did you learn how to
run a motorcycle?" he asked, helping the prisoner to his feet.

"I was a chauffeur a little time back. Sure we never thought to run off