Chot Benson called to his chum Rick Dalton who was racing¹ down the Belemere street with every appearance of being in great haste. He was not going to a train—that was evident, for he was hatless and coatless—and though Rick and the other boys of the seacoast town often went without these pieces of wearing apparel, still they did not start train journeys in this style.

 

And there was no fire—Chot was sure of that, for he would have heard the whistle of the pumping engine at the water tank had there blaze.

 

Still Rick Dalton was in a hurry.

 

“Wait a minute!” called Chot.

 

“Can’t!” flung back Rick, over his shoulder. “I’ve got to see about Ruddy!”

 

“Whew!” whistled Chot.

 

This explained it then. Rick’s beloved dog, Ruddy the red setter that had been saved from the sea—Ruddy was in danger. No wonder Rick ran. But what threatened Ruddy? Chot was as anxious to know as any boy could be who had a chum with a dog.

 

“I’m coming!” cried Chot and then, he too, coatless and hatless, sped down the street after Rick.

 

It looked like a race, and in fact it was a sort of race, for Rick was urged on by a certain anxiety, and Chot wanted to overtake his chum to find out what it was all about. For a time the same distance separated the two lads—Rick in the lead. And then, because Rick had been running longer than had Chot, the latter began to forge ahead and soon he was his chum’s side.

 

“Hey, slow up, can’t you?” panted Chot. “What’s the rush? There isn’t a fire; is there?”

 

“No,” came in rather gasping² tones from Rick, “but I just heard that a dog’s been shot and I was afraid it might be mine.”

 

“Who’d shoot Ruddy?”

 

“I don’t know—nobody—I hope. But I was afraid—”

 

“Who told you?” demanded Chot, jog-trotting with his chum at a little slower pace now, as their laboring³ hearts and increased blood pressure, together with a shortening of breaths began to cause pains in their sides.

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