He suddenly ceased speaking. From the bushes along the road sprang several ragged, masked figures. Each one, aiming his weapon at Tom, said in a low voice, that could not have been heard by the driver of the hay wagon:
"Slow up your machine, young feller! We want to speak with you, and don't you make a loud noise, or it won't be healthy for you!"
"Why of all the—!" began Mr. Damon, but another of the footpads leveling his weapon at the eccentric man growled:
"Dry up, if you don't want to get shot!"
Mr. Damon subsided. Discretion was very plainly the better part of valor. Tom had shut off the current. The load of hay continued on ahead. Tom thought perhaps the driver of it might have been in collusion with the thieves, to cause the auto to slow up.
"What do you want with us?" asked the young inventor, trying to speak calmly, but finding it a hard task, with a revolver pointed at him.
"You know what we want," exclaimed the leader, in a low voice. "We want that cash you got from the bank, and we're going to have it! Come, now, shell out!" and he advanced toward the automobile.
