“What’s all this?” asked Mr. Swiper, as the car came to a stop before the rope.

With hand shaking and heart thumping, but borne up by a towering resolve, Peter took his stand beside one of the front wheels. “The the road is it’s closed,” he said, his voice trembling. The hand which held the knife stole below the shiny mud-guard and rested on the smooth, unyielding rubber. “The road is closed,” he repeated.

Mr. Swiper climbed down out of the car, muttering an oath. He looked apprehensively back along the road and being sure of no danger there he crossed the rope and advanced a few yards along the road to inspect it.

Peter was in the grip of terrible fear, fear at his own boldness. His whole form trembled. He did not stop to think, he knew that if he were going to do anything effectual it must be in those few brief moments. There are many ways to cripple an auto without damaging it, but Peter knew nothing of autos except that they went by gasoline.

In an emergency he would have slashed a tire even while the machine moved. Now that he had a little time in which to think he hurried behind the auto and crawling beneath it turned on the outlet of the gas tank. He knew that the tank was in back and that there must be a pipe leading from it. He had intended to wrench the thin pipe away, when his groping, trembling fingers stumbled on the outlet cock. This he turned on with as much terror as if he were setting fire to the universe.

Aghast at his own inspiration and boldness, he stood behind the car, shaking all over, as he heard the precious fuel running away in a steady stream and pattering on the road. Well, he would take the consequences of this decisive act. From the moment he had seen those glaring headlights and realized that he was participating in a reality, he had been frantic, wondering what to do. Well, now he had “gone and done it” and he was terror-stricken at his own act. The mere wasting of so much gasoline was a terrible thing in the homely life of poor Peter.

He paused behind the car listening. He had not the courage to go forward. He listened as the liquid fuel flowed away and trickled over the spare tire-rack, and his beating heart seemed to keep time with it.

Ah, you Hunkajunk touring model with all your thousand delights, you cannot get along without this trickling liquid any better than your lowly brother, the humble Ford. Would all of it flow away before that terrible man came back?

Now Peter heard voices in front of the car; the man had returned, and was speaking to his confederate, his pal.

“I won’t get out of the car and I won’t desert it,” he heard the small stranger announce sturdily.

“Didn’t you say you were with me?”

“I did, but I ”

“Then shut up. The road’s all right; there’s nothing the matter with it; this is some kind of a frame-up. Did you come along this way when you copped it before; I mean you and that pair?”

“I don’t know, I was under the buffalo robe.”

They were thieves all right; Peter knew it now. And his assurance on this point gave him courage. The strangers would be no safer to deal with, but at least Peter knew now that he had the right on his side. In a sudden burst of impulsive resolution he stepped around and in a spirit of utter recklessness spoke up. His own voice sounded strange to him.

“I I know what you are you’re thieves,” he said. “I can I can tell by the way you talk and and you you can’t take the car even an inch you can’t because all the gasoline is gone out of it and I did it and I don’t care and you you can kill me if you want to only you can’t take the car. And and pretty soon Ham Sanders will be along with the milk cans and he’s not afraid of you ”

“What did you say about ham?” Pee-wee shouted down at him.

“Ham Sanders,” Peter called back defiantly.

“I though you said ham sandwich,” Pee-wee retorted.

“He can he’s even he can even handle a bull,” shouted Peter, carried away by excitement. “All the the gasoline is gone it is because now I can hear it stop dripping so now now what are you going to do? So?”