the van doors and shouted, "All out, you joyriders. We're home."
The gathering darkness fortunately hid Speedy's bedraggled appearance as they walked up De Lacey Street toward the Dillon's house, Speedy still carrying the little suitcase that had cost him his new suit. King Tut trotted at their heels. Harold opened the door at the Dillons'. The light was burning in the living room. They walked into the unexpected spectacle of Steven Carter acting as nursemaid for the undershirted Pop Dillon and rubbing the electric vibrator over Pop's bowed shoulders. The old man was groaning now and then, and there was a bad gash under one of his eyes. Jane went up to him at once.
"Is your rheumatism worse, grandfather?" she asked anxiously.
"No, it ain't the rheumatism this time," Pop answered weakly. "A thug tried to beat me up when I brought my car back to the barn an hour or so ago. But I fought him off and I yelled so loud he finally went away. Afraid of the cops, I guess."
"I found him here in the living room groaning and almost exhausted," Carter explained. "He has a nasty cut under his eye. I bathed it. His back is hurt pretty badly too. I was trying to relieve his pain: but he should really see a doctor."
Speedy shot a quick, hostile glance at Carter. He had never liked him since the first time he laid eyes on him. His dislike was compounded half of a suspicion that the fellow was hanging around the Dillons for no good purpose and half of jealousy be-
