"He's coming to," said Bluff after Frank had sprinkled the scratched
face with some of the cold water.

There was a deep sigh, then Frank saw that the fellow's eyes had opened,
and were surveying him with a troubled stare.

"Feeling better, Hank?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, I'm all right, I reckon. What brought you fellows here? Where am
I, anyhow? Did I just drop off that motorcycle? No. I remember, now.
Flimsy took the last cent I had while I lay in the road. The meanest
skunk I ever met up with. If ever he crosses my path again I'll get even
with the cur," he growled, sitting up and holding a hand to his head.

"What happened to you, Hank? Why were you lying in the road? Did you
have a fight with that tramp printer?" asked Frank, suspecting the
truth.

"Yes. I told him I was sick of keeping with him. He's a bad one, and
some fine day he'll land in the stone jug. He scared me the way he
talked. I started to tramp back home, and he kept nagging me all the way
here. In the end he made me so mad I just tackled him. That was what he
wanted. Why, he put me to sleep the easiest way you ever saw. I just
remember him fumbling in my pockets before he hoofed it."

"Well, it was a lucky thing for you, Hank, after all. If you'd kept with
that rascal you'd soon have been just like him. Did you say you meant to
go back home now?"