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Title: The Rambler Club's motor car

Author: W. Crispin Sheppard

Release date: July 5, 2022 [eBook #68459]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Penn Publishing Company, 1913

Credits: David Edwards, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAMBLER CLUB'S MOTOR CAR ***


[Illustration: A CHORUS OF GOOD-BYES]




  The Rambler Club’s
  Motor Car

  BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD


  AUTHOR OF

  “THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S GOLD MINE”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S AEROPLANE”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSE-BOAT”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S BALL NINE”

  Illustrated by the Author

  [Illustration]

  THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
  PHILADELPHIA
  MCMXIII




  COPYRIGHT
  1913 BY
  THE PENN
  PUBLISHING
  COMPANY




Introduction


The various adventures which have befallen Bob Somers and his fellow
members of the club which the boys formed at Kingswood, Wisconsin, are
related in “The Rambler Club Afloat,” “The Rambler Club’s Winter Camp,”
“The Rambler Club in the Mountains,” “The Rambler Club on Circle T
Ranch,” “The Rambler Club among the Lumberjacks,” “The Rambler Club’s
Gold Mine,” “The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane” and “The Rambler Club’s
House-Boat.”

Bob Somers, Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton, three members of the club,
have reached Chicago, homeward bound after a trip up the Hudson. The
characters of the boys are widely different. Bob Somers is strong and
athletic, while stout Dave Brandon, inclined to take his ease on all
possible occasions, can be remarkably active when circumstances demand.
Tom Clifton, a trifle self-conscious, and sometimes allowing his
enthusiasm to carry him away, is really not so vain as many think.

Dave Brandon, poet and historian of the club, who is chronicling the
various incidents and adventures that befall them, feels that their
present motor car trip will add but little to his book. A series of
unlooked-for events, however, quite reverse this idea.

In the next book, “The Rambler Club’s Ball Nine,” is told the story of
certain incidents at the Kingswood high school. Several of the best
players have graduated, and in their attempts to reorganize the team
the Ramblers find themselves involved in a stormy and exciting struggle.

                                                    W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.




Contents


      I. OFF TO WISCONSIN              9

     II. THE FIRST LAP                20

    III. THE “FEARLESS”               31

     IV. THE CIRCUS                   38

      V. GEORGY, THE GIANT            45

     VI. JOE RODGERS                  59

    VII. DESERTED                     74

   VIII. TOM AT THE WHEEL             88

     IX. SPEEDING                    104

      X. THE CONSTABLE               112

     XI. GETTING A JOB               125

    XII. THE NEW BARKER              137

   XIII. UNDER THE BIG TOP           150

    XIV. THE WHALEBACK               169

     XV. AN UNEXPECTED VOYAGE        178

    XVI. TOM SCORES                  189

   XVII. ELEPHANTS                   203

  XVIII. A ROUGH TRIP                215

    XIX. DAVE DOES SOME RIDING       229

     XX. VIC TURNS UP                243

    XXI. EXPLANATIONS                251

   XXII. DAVE RESIGNS                259

  XXIII. THE ARM OF THE LAW          279

   XXIV. THE JUDGE INTERFERES        292

    XXV. JOE’S CHANCE                301




Illustrations


         PAGE

  A CHORUS OF GOOD-BYES               _Frontispiece_

  “ARE YOU WORKING FOR THE CIRCUS?”               71

  “STEAMER COMING,” HE ANNOUNCED                 175

  “LOOK OUT FOR YOURSELVES, BOYS”                201

  HE SPRANG TO HIS PLACE                         284




The Rambler Club’s Motor Car




CHAPTER I

OFF TO WISCONSIN


On the steps of a house on Michigan Avenue, Chicago, not far from
Thirtieth Street, Victor Collins stood gazing up and down the wide
thoroughfare. There was an expression in his eyes which seemed to
indicate an earnest and expectant state of mind.

The steps belonged to a fine mansion with handsome columns on either
side of the entrance and an ornate balcony above. Everything suggested
that the neighborhood was the home of wealth and aristocracy. Even the
lad on the steps fitted perfectly into the picture. His rather small,
slight figure was dressed in a natty brown suit, while a cap--a very
large checkered cap--rested jauntily on his neatly brushed hair. Victor
Collins’ features were well proportioned, although the curves were
rather too dainty, perhaps, to suit the idea of some critical lads.

Victor was becoming impatient. Impatience was one of his principal
characteristics. Waiting is tedious. So Victor tilted his cap far
back, the process revealing two frowning lines on his forehead which,
considering his age, should never have existed.

Fortunately for the lad’s peace of mind, however, the vigorous honk,
honk of a motor car, rising above all other sounds in the street,
suddenly caused his gaze to become centered upon the approaching
machine.

“Well, thank goodness, here they are at last!” he exclaimed, joyfully.

Running down the steps he reached the curb just as a big touring car
swung up alongside and came to a stop.

“All ready, Victor?” called the chauffeur, a broad-shouldered,
healthy-looking lad, leaping to the ground.

There was no answer, because at the same instant three other boys, with
much noise and laughter, began climbing out.

The youngest was very tall and thin, and this was accentuated by the
stoutness of a broadly smiling lad who stood close beside him. The
fourth member of the group, a slender, sandy-haired boy, appeared to
be about sixteen. His broad forehead and delicately chiseled features
suggested fine intellect.

The first three, Bob Somers, Tom Clifton and Dave Brandon, were members
of the Rambler Club, who, having made a house-boat trip up the Hudson,
had reached Chicago en route to Wisconsin. Charlie Blake, their
companion, a classmate, often referred to as the “grind,” on account of
his studious habits, was on a visit to his friend, Victor Collins.

It naturally followed that the Ramblers, happening to be in Chicago at
the same time, received an invitation to visit the Collins mansion. And
it also followed that, as the Ramblers were going to have the use of a
seven passenger touring car, Victor Collins was more than pleased to
meet them.

Mr. Somers, Bob’s father, having motored to Chicago on business,
returned by train, leaving the car at a garage, so that the boys might
use it for the remainder of the journey to Kingswood, Wisconsin, their
home.

When Victor Collins learned of this intention he instantly announced a
determination to go with the crowd as far as Kenosha.

“You see,” he explained to Bob Somers, “my Uncle Ralph lives there;
and he owns the dandiest motor yacht your eyes ever looked upon. He’s
invited me to take a trip to Milwaukee. Talk about sport!”

So the morning had come when Victor’s anticipations were about to be
realized.

“You’re all as brown as a bunch of street cleaners,” he remarked, after
salutations had been exchanged. “I don’t believe that sun-tinting will
ever wear off, either. Hello, Hannibal, hello!”

He turned and faced the house.

A very dignified colored man, wearing an immaculately clean apron, had
opened the door and was standing with a large suit case in his hand.

“Bring it down and chuck it into the car,” commanded Victor.

“An awful lot of stuff for a short trip,” remarked Tom. “You ought to
throw out half.”

“Fade away,” retorted Victor. “There’s another one coming.”

“Mercy!” snickered Tom. “Why don’t you bring a department store along?”

Hannibal made short work of depositing the heavy suit cases in the
tonneau. Then, grinning broadly, he drew forth a letter and handed it
to Charlie Blake.

“It am just come, suh,” he explained.

“The handwriting spells Kirk Talbot’s name as loud as those checks on
Victor’s cap, fellows,” cried Blake.

“Kirk Talbot?” queried Tom, interestedly. “We met Kirk often on one of
our trips. Remember, Bob?”

Bob did, and smiled.

“I’m sorry that he and Nat Wingate won’t be back in the school this
term,” he remarked. “By the way, Dave, we’ll have to hustle to catch up
with our studies.”

“Don’t mention it, Bob. Just think of how the doors of that school are
yawning for us even now.”

“They’ll have to yawn a mighty big, wide yawn for you,” said Victor.

“Go ahead, Charlie, read that letter out loud,” cried Tom.

Blake was soon smiling broadly.

“Kirk has a few interesting knocks to hand out, Bob,” he chuckled.
“Just listen:

  “‘DEAR CHARLIE:--

  “‘Your last effusion is lying on my desk. So you are actually going
  to meet Bob Somers and his chums! Say, don’t those chaps manage
  to have the finest time ever, with their aeroplanes, house-boats,
  automobiles and a dash of cowboy life in between!

  “‘And you are going to motor back to Kingswood with them! That’s
  great.

  “‘But I’ve got a bit of news which ought to make Bob Somers sit up
  and take notice. Nat Wingate and I have formed a football team. Yes,
  it’s true. There’s a lot of good material going to waste here in
  town. And the high school team has had its own way so long it’s time
  somebody took them down a peg. And though we really hate to do it
  those chaps are in for the worst drubbing of their career, and we’re
  even talking about a ball nine next spring.’”

  “Are we going to stay here all day?” grumbled Victor.

  “Just a few moments, Vic,” laughed Charlie, resuming:

  “‘Now that Nat Wingate has gone those high school chaps are like an
  army without a general.’”

  “Huh!” remarked Tom, frowning slightly.

  “‘Now, Charlie, here’s what Nat and I think. Bob Somers and his
  Rambler crowd may be pretty good at bowling over grizzlies,
  collecting panther skins, or busting bronchos, but when it comes to
  either football or baseball----’”

  “Well, I like that!” broke in Tom indignantly.

  “Prepare yourself for the worst,” laughed Charlie. “Listen to this:

  “‘I guess they are simply out of the running?’”

  “Did you ever, Bob Somers!” cried Tom. “The nerve of him!”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I guess the high school eleven can take care of any
  crowd he brings,” said Bob.

  “There are some pretty good baseball players, though, in Kingswood,”
  said Tom. “I guess it’s up to us to take hold next spring and put a
  little ginger into our crowd.”

  “You haven’t quite the shape for a ball player, Clifton,” remarked
  Victor, with a critical stare.

  “Humph!” sniffed Tom.

  “For goodness’ sake, finish that letter, Blake,” continued Victor,
  with a grin.

  “‘I hear that the Kingswood High has a chance to get an athletic
  field,’” read Charlie. “‘Mr. Rupert Barry owns a large plot of ground
  which ought to make a dandy ball park. But, so far, it is only a
  rumor, and maybe a silly one, at that. You would think so if you saw
  some of the playing the K. H. S. has done recently.

  “‘Tell Bob Somers what I said. Good-bye and good luck.

                                                  “‘Your old chum,
                                                               “‘KIRK.’”

“A nice long letter,” drawled Dave.

“Is that all you have to say about it?” demanded Tom.

“Well, Tom,” said Dave, slowly, “your suggestion needs consideration.”

“You haven’t quite the shape for a ball player either, Brandon,” said
Victor.

“Goodness--Dave’s turn now!” snickered Tom. “What kind of a figure must
a ball tosser have, anyway?”

“Somers is about right,” answered Victor, calmly. “But a chap that is
either all bones or all fat won’t do.”

“We’ll show you some day,” snapped Tom, hotly.

Baseball was a rather sore subject with Charlie Blake. He had tried it
the season before, but lack of confidence in himself speedily caused
him to drop out of the game.

Some of the boys who were not of a very considerate nature concluded
that Charlie had a yellow streak, and, at this point, Bob Somers earned
Blake’s everlasting gratitude by sticking manfully to him.

“Say,” remarked the latter, rather dolefully, “I’m sorry I didn’t make
good on the nine last year. I certainly tried hard enough.”

“Maybe you didn’t have the right kind of a figure,” said Tom, with
tremendous sarcasm.

“A nice thing to waste all this time,” grunted Victor. “We ought to be
burning up some of those country roads.”

“That’s right,” laughed Bob Somers. “Pile in, fellows.”

His eyes sparkled as they ran over the graceful lines of the big
touring machine. It was finished in a deep, rich red, relieved by
touches of darker color. Polished lamps, steering gear and levers, in
places, shot back the rays of the early morning sun.

It was something to feel that they were actually in possession of such
a magnificent car--theirs to command, theirs to take them where they
willed, and theirs to defy distance, time, and railroads.

Mrs. Collins was looking out of a second story window.

An instant later, Victor, from his place on the rear cushion, shouted:

“Good-bye, mother!”

“Have you all those warm wraps and the umbrella I told you to take?”
she called.

“Yes, mother!”

“And that bottle of beef tea, and your raincoat?”

“Yes, mother!”

“And will you be sure to use the cough medicine in case you catch cold?”

“Yes, mother!”

“Well, do be careful, Victor. And don’t fail to send a card home this
afternoon.”

Victor promised, his face glowing with anticipation.

“We are going to have a ripping time, mother!” he shouted. “Hooray! Let
her whizz, Somers!”




CHAPTER II

THE FIRST LAP


The crisp staccato notes of the motor suddenly drowned the sound of his
voice. From the exhaust poured a bluish haze of gasoline vapor. The car
apparently became vibrant with life and energy. Then, as the rapid-fire
roar quickly lessened to a low musical drone, Bob Somers threw in the
clutch.

In the midst of a chorus of good-byes, the motor car began to glide
smoothly away, and, upon looking back, the boys saw the lady at the
window waving her handkerchief.

“Oh, isn’t this just stunning!” cried Victor. “Hit it up, Somers.”

Row after row of residences seemed to be drawn swiftly toward them and
sent slipping behind. At each street crossing Bob slowed up, allowing
the boys momentary views of Lake Michigan, only a short distance away.

The few vehicles and pedestrians about appeared as mere crawling things
whenever the high-powered car leaped forward in obedience to the
summons of its master’s hand.

Victor Collins experienced a delightful sense of ease and comfort as he
watched the passing show with all the zest and interest that novelty
often brings.

“Go it, Somers, go it!” he urged. “Whoop it up like sixty!”

“Restraint and caution should ever be the chauffeur’s watchword,”
drawled Dave.

“That’s what I think, too,” approved Charlie.

“In cities they always have so many laws to bother a chap,” grumbled
Tom. “Why, when we were in Wyoming----”

“Oh, forget it, son,” interrupted Victor. “This beats all your old
cowboy business to pieces.”

The residential section of Michigan Avenue had been passed. The motor
car was now swinging along by the side of Grant Park. Out over the
lake they could see that the stiff breeze was kicking up the water
into choppy waves and tossing about several small boats whose sails
cut crisply white against the background. The far-reaching stretch of
water, in the early morning light, became lost in a scintillating haze
which dazzled the eye.

“The clouds are piling up,” remarked Dave. “I guess we’ll have some
stormy weather soon.”

A succession of views passed so rapidly that the eye could take in
only their salient features. Almost before they realized it the boys
were being carried across the Chicago River. One look showed them an
insignificant tug struggling valiantly with a huge, clumsy barge, a
myriad of masts, a kaleidoscopic effect of hulls, docks and buildings,
with here and there clouds of smoke and steam. Then all was whirled
behind them.

“What time shall we get to Kenosha, Somers?” demanded Victor.

“About one o’clock, if everything goes well,” answered Bob.

He put on his goggles, for occasionally the breeze brought with it a
shower of flying particles.

“Good! Then we can slip over to Uncle Ralph’s motor yacht. Did you
speak, sir?”

“I did,” answered Tom, with dignity. “I said it might be a good idea
for the bunch to stop over night at Kenosha.”

“They might stand for you that long,” grinned Victor.

“The question is: can we stand for it?”

“Maybe we’ll see you at Milwaukee,” broke in Charlie. “Too bad, Vic,
you’re not going to stick with us all the way. You’d never catch me
going on any yacht.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t swim.”

“Well, Uncle Ralph wouldn’t expect you to swim. Anyway, you ought to be
ashamed to admit it.”

“Bet you can’t, either.”

“Your remark is irrelevant, as the lawyers say,” laughed Victor. “I
never yet felt a bit nervous in the water.”

“Where did you ever paddle about, I’d like to know?”

“Oh, in a tub.”

“Fellows, we’re coming to Lincoln Park, one of the finest in Chicago,”
laughed Charlie.

“Nothing like having your own sightseeing car,” observed Dave.

“I guess the people around here think they are seeing sights,” giggled
Victor. “With those glasses on, Somers, you look like the speed king
himself. Just wait till I get my hands on the throttle--if there’s a
mile of straight road in front I’ll drive her up to sixty.”

“Huh! This car has to go all the way to Wisconsin,” sniffed Tom. “We
don’t want to have to telegraph any scrap iron dealer to hurry out and
shovel up the pieces--eh, Bob?”

“Eh, Bob!” repeated Victor, “eh, Bob! How many times a day do you get
that off? The great chauffeur and his brave passenger, Clifton! Let
Charlie take the helm. He’ll drive slowly enough to suit you.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed ominously.

“Talking about speed! Why, in Wyoming, where we didn’t have any old
laws to think about----”

“Oh, why is Wyoming!” chuckled Victor. “What a state it must be to have
no laws.”

“Oh ho, this park is a refreshing sight,” broke in Dave--“a little
oasis in the midst of mortar, brick and stone. Slow up a bit, Bob, so
that we may have a better chance to enjoy the contemplation of nature.”

“You talk like a botany book, Brandon,” grunted Victor. “See here,
Somers!”

“Well?”

“Never better, thank you. Let me try my hand at driving?”

Victor’s tone indicated an expectation that his wishes would be acceded
to without objection. At home he had been so long accustomed to having
his own way that submission to his imperious demands had come to be
expected as a matter of course.

Charlie Blake looked alarmed.

“Going to do it, Bob?” he asked.

“Of course he’s going to do it,” grinned Victor, satirically. “Aren’t
you, Bob?”

“Not until we get eighty-six miles from nowhere,” Tom put in.

“I hardly think so, Vic,” answered Bob, good-naturedly.

Victor’s expression indicated his displeasure.

“All right then--I’ll let it go now; but just wait till we get out in
the open country,” he grumbled.

“There’s a coolness in the air,” remarked Tom.

He looked quizzically toward Victor.

“A storm is brewing,” said Dave, absent-mindedly.

Presently the park was left behind. On and on sped the motor car. There
was so much to see and so little time to see it in that the brain of
each lad held only a confused impression of many buildings, of trees
and grassy stretches, and shining patches of lake.

“What place is this we are coming to?” cried Tom, at length.

“Evanston,” answered Victor.

Some of the citizens were mildly astonished to see a great touring car
containing five lads whirling through the town.

“Hi, hi! catch on to the joy riders!” yelled a small boy. “Where’d you
get it?”

“No time to answer questions, sonny,” screeched Victor. “This is the
lightning express, the speediest wagon in the state, with Somers, the
slow-speed wizard, at the throttle. Whoop-la!”

Evanston was quickly left behind. Then came a succession of small
towns along the lake front. The sky was now almost entirely overcast.
Near the horizon rested a mass of clouds of a murky, yellowish hue
which seemed to impart to the distant water some of its own threatening
aspect.

At Waukegan the boys stopped for lunch.

A curious look came over Victor Collins’ face as Tom, with an air of
much importance, sprang into the chauffeur’s seat.

“Jehoshaphat! Get out of that!” he exclaimed. “You’re not going to
chauf.”

“Of course I am!” snapped Tom.

“Then it’s my turn next.”

“But you don’t know how.”

“What!” scoffed Victor. “Anybody can do it. How many lessons did it
take before you learned how to blow the horn?”

Tom, uttering a snort of indignation, threw in the clutch, for by this
time the others were in their places.

The car had traveled over a mile before Victor spoke again.

“Say, Somers”--his tone was very mild and sweet--“you’ll let me drive,
won’t you--just a little way?”

“A revolution is coming,” murmured Charlie.

“I’m afraid not, Victor,” answered Bob. “It’s too risky.”

“How about Clifton? He hasn’t run into anything yet.”

“Tom took a course of instruction.”

“Come now, Somers, what are you afraid of?” Victor’s eyes were
snapping. He leaned over and touched Dave on the shoulder. “See here,
Brandon, say a word for me. I want to chauf.”

“It is not so written in the book of destiny,” laughed Dave.
“Experience and wisdom teach us that. Experience is sometimes necessary
before wisdom can be acquired.”

“Oh, bosh!”

Victor brought out the words with angry emphasis. There was nothing
in Dave’s expression to give him encouragement, and his eye caught a
twitch of amusement on Tom Clifton’s lips.

It acted upon his impetuous nature somewhat after the fashion of the
spark that explodes the gasoline vapor.

On the impulse of the moment, he seized Dave Brandon’s cap and hurled
it spitefully upon the road.

“That’s what you get for sassing me, you big, fat Indian,” he howled.
“Go and pick it up.”

The stout lad stilled a roar of protest which began to pour from Tom’s
lips.

“Never mind, fellows.” His smiling face showed no sign of ruffled
feelings. “I wanted a chance to stretch my legs. Thanks, Vic.”

As the motor car came to a halt, he laid his hand on the door.

Victor Collins looked at him curiously. Almost on the instant he felt a
twinge of regret at his childish action. He heartily wished that Dave
had flown into a rage. Then, after a snappy exchange of compliments--at
which pastime he considered himself well able to hold his own--things
might have quieted down without so much loss to his dignity.

Dave’s unexpected calmness, however, made him feel uncomfortably small,
so he did what he usually did when things failed to go in a way that
suited him--began to sulk.

Dave “stretched his legs” for a good five minutes. Then the motor
car began to roll forward again. Tom didn’t scorch exactly--he knew
that Bob Somers’ watchful eye was upon him--but several times Charlie
Blake’s nerves received severe jolts, as trees and telegraph poles by
the roadside seemed to be whirled by with bewildering rapidity.

“Kenosha, Wisconsin, fellows!” exclaimed Bob, at length, half rising
from his seat.

“Kenosha!” echoed all but Victor.

“The first lap of our journey is done!” cried Dave.




CHAPTER III

THE “FEARLESS”


Leaving the motor car at a garage, the boys made their way to the
harbor. Down by the river they found a great deal to attract their
attention. Factories with tall chimneys sent columns of smoke whirling
upward; schooners, barges and a number of smaller craft were moored
along the stream; and these, together with picturesque buildings, big
lumber sheds or great pilings presented so many pleasing combinations
to the eye that the artistic soul of Dave was enraptured.

The smell of fresh water was in the air, and along with it came a faint
odor of things belonging to shipping. The gurgle and splash of lapping
waves and the creaking of boats vainly tugging at their moorings formed
a steady accompaniment to the occasional puffing of passing tugs or the
hoarse blasts of whistles.

Close alongside a big lumber schooner the boys, who had taken turns in
carrying Victor’s heavy luggage, finally discovered the motor yacht
“Fearless.”

A big, burly man busy at some work on the wharf looked up as they
approached.

Captain Ralph Bunderley had been successively the master of a barge, a
coastwise schooner and a windjammer on the Atlantic. Having been left
a comfortable fortune by a relative, he finally retired from the sea,
but, feeling that to get away from the sight of land occasionally was
as necessary to him as water to a fish, he had built a motor yacht some
sixty feet in length designed for speed, as well as to withstand the
rough weather on the lake.

Victor, still in a surly mood, felt considerably embarrassed, for Uncle
Ralph, attired in a suit of faded blue overalls and a greasy cap, gave
more the impression of being a man out of a job than one of the richest
citizens in the community.

The boy glanced slyly around to see if any of his companions were
wearing suspicious grins, but, to his relief, they were too busily
engaged in inspecting the graceful lines of the motor yacht to pay
attention to the captain’s appearance.

Uncle Ralph cordially shook hands. His bluff, hearty way caught the
fancy of the crowd, and before long they were talking together like old
acquaintances.

“There is certainly a lot of class to that cruiser, captain!” exclaimed
Tom, in his gruff tones, “and I’ll bet it can go some, too.”

“Over twenty miles an hour,” answered Uncle Ralph, smilingly. “We’ll go
aboard now.” He raised his voice. “Hey, you Phil Malone!”

Like a jack-in-the-box, a face popped quickly to one of the cabin
port-holes.

“That’s Phil,” explained the captain. “My first mate, I call him--a
bashful young chap, especially among strangers. Consider yourselves
introduced.”

The boys heard a few mumbling words. Then the face disappeared.

The “Fearless,” a raised deck cruiser with a rakish bow, painted a
creamy white, and relieved here and there by touches of blue and gold,
made a striking appearance against the background of restless water.
Like a racer impatient for the start she strained and tugged at her
cables, occasionally rolling slightly as heavier onslaughts of choppy
waves gurgled and splashed against her hull.

Before the crowd could set foot on deck Phil Malone appeared. He was
tall and angular, with red hair, a long, gaunt face and deep-set
eyes. He looked at his visitors with such a comical expression of
astonishment that Victor, forgetting his ill-humor for the moment,
burst into a hearty laugh.

“You never expected to see a bunch of Indians like this, hey, Phil?” he
asked.

“Naw--I--I sure didn’t,” agreed Phil, as he diffidently backed away.

“Here now, don’t you run off. Give us a song.”

“Let Phil alone,” commanded Uncle Ralph. “Singing isn’t his forte. He’s
better at polishing brass.”

“Clifton has an awful lot that needs attention,” mumbled Victor.

“Oh, I say, fellows, this isn’t seeing the yacht,” broke in Bob.

“Let the inspection begin at once,” returned Captain Bunderley, with a
smile.

They followed him to the companionway and then down into the dining
saloon.

Standing in the cozy interior the boys with the exception of Victor
voiced their enthusiasm in words that brought forth chuckles of
satisfaction from the old salt’s lips.

Never did woodwork, or door-knobs, or furnishings appear more
spotlessly clean than those revealed by the cold gray rays streaming
through the open port-holes.

“These,” remarked Captain Bunderley--he indicated the ports--“are
provided with heavy plate glass and can be so locked as to make them
practically water-tight. With ordinary windows, after a heavy sea has
been pounding against the boat for several hours, the cabin would
probably be in a mess.” Walking across the floor, he opened a door.
“Let me introduce you to the engine room and galley.”

“Phil’s the galley-slave,” confided Victor, in a loud whisper.

“Who’s the engineer, captain?” asked Bob.

“Jack Stubbs, a sailor I had with me on many a sea voyage. Martin Ricks
is the helmsman.”

“Now, uncle, please show the bunch your stateroom,” put in Victor.

The captain led them to a passageway abaft the engine room, presently
stepping into a compartment finished in enamel white.

“This is enough to make even me feel like becoming a skipper,”
commented Dave.

“If only it weren’t so dreadfully dangerous,” ventured Charlie Blake.

“Certainly would be with him as skipper,” piped Victor.

Out in the open air again the crowd found an awning extending from
the stern to a point where the raised deck began. Dave expressed the
opinion that it must be very delightful to sit there on a pleasant day,
with the water sparkling in the sunlight and a gentle breeze sighing
past.

“I guess some howling blasts would make you the sigher, instead,”
laughed Victor.

“Say, Bob!”

Tom Clifton’s voice cut sharply into the conversation.

“Let’s hear it, Tom.”

“I’ve been thinking about that ball nine of ours. Kirk Talbot had an
awful nerve to----”

“Ha, ha!” grinned Victor. “Can’t you get that off your mind, Clifton?”

Tom tossed his head.

“I don’t want to,” he snapped. “Besides, I’ve got an idea, and a mighty
good one. I’ll tell you all about it to-night.”

“Don’t hurry yourself. We can wait.” Victor nudged Charlie sharply in
the ribs. “Say, Blakelets, don’t you wish you were going along with us
on the ‘Fearless’ to-morrow?”

Charlie was one of those lads who possess a certain ill-defined dread
of the water. At almost every roll of the deck rather shivery feelings
coursed along his spine.

“Gracious! I don’t see why in the world Victor wants to go to Milwaukee
by boat,” he thought, nervously. He took a long, earnest look at the
sky, then exclaimed, with considerable emphasis:

“No, Vic, I most certainly do not!”




CHAPTER IV

THE CIRCUS


The Ramblers and Charlie Blake secured quarters at one of Kenosha’s
principal hotels. As Captain Bunderley had some business to attend to,
Victor decided to remain with them until the hour for turning in.

Immediately after supper the crowd gathered in Bob Somers’ room.

Dave Brandon, the poet and historian of the club, was soon reclining
with his accustomed ease at the window. The dark, gloomy night
strangely stirred his imagination. Vague inspirations floated through
his brain. He thought of the lonely lake as the subject for a poem;
he cudgeled his brain to seize and hold fast the elusive words which
constantly flitted before his mental vision.

Presently Dave sat up. A walk in the open air, he decided, might aid
him in cornering this near-inspiration.

Bob Somers was busy writing a letter; Victor and Charlie were talking,
while Tom at a table all by himself kept scribbling on sheet after
sheet of paper. Tom’s face wore a tremendous frown, as though his work
were of a deep and absorbing nature.

“Hello! Owing to the increased demand for paper the price must soon
advance,” chirped Victor, suddenly. “What’s up?”

“You mean what’s going down,” laughed Blake.

Tom seemed to hesitate. He glanced sternly toward Victor, then
exclaimed:

“This is what I was going to tell you about. I’m getting up a set of
by-laws for our new Athletic Association.”

The room was immediately in an uproar. Dave, fearful that all his ideas
might vanish, jumped up hastily and walked to the door.

“I’ll be back soon, Bob!” he called, with a laugh.

Out in the corridor, Tom’s voice, already raised in a hot argument with
Victor, still reached him. In another moment he was down-stairs and on
the street.

A brisk walk in the cool air promised to aid Dave’s faculties, as he
had hoped. Already the vague phrases in his mind were beginning to
shape themselves into definite words.

Here and there a swinging sign-board mingled a series of dismal
creaking notes with the crisp moaning of a gusty breeze. Autumn leaves,
ruthlessly torn from their resting places on the branches, occasionally
whirled helter-skelter through the air, to dance merrily along the
streets. Trails of dust, banging shutters, or flickering lights were
all tributes to the tyranny of the never-ceasing currents.

Ten minutes later, in a sheltered position near an electric light, Dave
was writing stanzas at record speed. It was really delightful--the way
in which that near-inspiration had been finally conquered.

Suddenly a voice broke in upon him.

“Say, Brandon, owing to the unprecedented demand for paper in Kenosha
the mills will be compelled to work overtime.”

Dave turned abruptly. Victor Collins’ dapper little figure was standing
close beside him.

“Gracious; you here!” cried the writer, in astonishment.

“No; I’m back there, still kidding the by-law committee,” chuckled
Victor. “Seriously, though, I finished him in about half a minute and
skipped after you. What have you got there?”

“Almost a poem,” confessed Dave.

“Read it,” commanded Victor, imperiously.

“Never!” laughed Dave.

Victor argued and coaxed. He even prepared to land a “good one” in the
neighborhood of the ribs; his little fists, tightly clenched, gyrated
fiercely. But Dave’s clever footwork more than balanced Victor’s speed.

“All right, smarty,” grumbled the boy. “Bet it’s awful piffle, anyway.”

“Come along, Vic,” laughed Dave, as he started off.

Victor Collins’ wishes were not often so disregarded as they had been
during that day. It touched his pride.

“If I don’t find a way to make these fine chaps drop down a peg or
two before to-morrow I’ll be much surprised,” he muttered grimly to
himself.

Thereupon Victor set his thoughts briskly to work in an effort to find
a scheme for getting square.

Down one street, or out another, the two wandered, often in silence,
for each had many thoughts to engage his attention, though on widely
divergent subjects. The busier, brightly-lighted sections began to be
slowly left behind. Electric cars no longer whizzed past them.

Dave and Victor finally found themselves on a wide, tree-lined avenue.

“What a delightful retreat,” murmured Dave. “Sitting on a nice,
comfortable porch I could get ideas for a dozen--eh?”

Victor had clutched his arm.

“Say, look straight ahead, Brandon!” he cried.

“I declare, I see lights, and more lights!” exclaimed Dave.

The pair began to stare earnestly toward a number of starlike points
which were moving about in a most erratic fashion.

“What in the mischief are they?” asked Victor. “Think some of the stars
have tumbled poetically down through the clouds?”

“Give it up,” laughed Dave. “We’ll know before the night is over.”

Victor, whose curiosity was highly excited, now easily kept ahead of
his taller companion. But the lights had entirely disappeared, leaving
the street to end apparently in a void of blackness.

“Looks like a jumping off place,” exclaimed Victor. “Hurry up, Brandon.”

They began to walk rapidly, soon covering a number of blocks.

Suddenly the cluster of lights flashed into view once more. Five
minutes later they heard a series of dull thuds, as of hammering,
accompanied at intervals by a low rumbling of wagon wheels. When an
open lot which faced the street was reached Dave and his companion saw
a number of flaming torches that sent weird streaks of yellow over the
ground, lighting up in their course groups of men busily engaged with
sledge-hammers.

Dave Brandon’s eyes were instantly attracted toward a huge bill-board
which rose from amidst a tangle of weeds and grasses. The rays from a
gas lamp cast a flickering glow over its multi-colored surface.

“Look, Vic,” he exclaimed, with a laugh. “The mystery is solved.”

And Victor, whose eyes were bright with interest, read in letters that
almost took in the entire length of the board:

“Ollie Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless Circus and Menagerie.”

“By George--a circus! Isn’t this jolly good luck, Brandon?” he cried,
enthusiastically.




CHAPTER V

GEORGY, THE GIANT


Victor Collins had not yet arrived at an age when a circus loses its
power to thrill the heart with joy. Each gilded chariot, each gaudy
menagerie wagon or gorgeous trapping still awoke within his breast a
responsive chord.

“They’re driving in stakes, Brandon,” he exclaimed. “See--there’s a
wagon--a four-horser, and lots of others back. We’re just in time to
watch ’em put up the tent.”

Over on the lot an odor of rank weeds and grasses filled the air.
It was all very black and forbidding, unpleasantly suggestive of
treacherous pitfalls or deep, stagnant pools of water, save where the
rays of flaring light streamed through the gloom.

Heavy wagons drawn by four horses rumbled their way across the bumpy,
uneven field, occasionally becoming stuck in the yielding turf,
whereupon the yells of drivers and cracking of whips came sharply to
their ears.

“Working like the dickens, aren’t they?” remarked Victor. “Let’s skip
around a bit.”

The two, steering a course around various obstructions, made their way
toward the busy scene. Soon they caught a glimpse of a faint grayish
mass of canvas spread out over the ground, while towering aloft like
the masts of a ship were a number of poles.

“That’s the big top, or main tent,” said Dave.

“Heads up there--look out!”

Above the sound of the jolting and creaking of a big red wagon and
crisp jingle of harness came the deep-throated warning. The leaders of
a four-horse team swerved sharply around.

“Over here, you for the flying squadron,” some one hailed from the
distance.

“Flying squadron! What in thunder is that?” cried Victor, wonderingly.

“The commissary department,” answered Dave. “In all well-regulated
shows that is attended to first. Guess this wagon is full of stuff
they’ll need in a hurry for the mess tent.”

A straggling procession, mainly of boys, soon began to arrive; the
lonely, dismal lot was fast becoming transformed into a scene of great
bustle and activity. More torches were flaring, and the echoing thuds
of the sledges increased in force and number. A bright glare from a
calcium light soon streamed over the field.

A force of workers with pick and shovel were leveling the ground, while
still others spread thick layers of straw over tracts where recent
rains had formed puddles of considerable size.

Presently a murmuring chorus from the crowds of excited children burst
into a loud hubbub of joyous shouts.

“Oh, look!” laughed Victor, attracted by the commotion.

Some distance ahead, amid the wagons, a huge form was looming up, now
dim and scarcely seen in the gloom, then brought sharply into relief by
the flaring lights.

“Hurray, here’s the elephant, as I live,” shouted Victor. “Gee,
Brandon--what was that? Didn’t you hear something?”

The boys were threading a dark, gloomy passage between two great
wagons, now horseless, their tarpaulin-covered tops seeming to tower to
a great height above them. A strange sound, suggestive of a deep sigh,
had cut into Victor’s sentence, and when it came a second time the two
looked about them with interest.

They saw several bales of hay, showing dimly against the field, another
deserted wagon, and an indistinct figure.

“Hello!” exclaimed Victor.

As he spoke the form began to rise, and, to their utter astonishment,
continued to rise until it stood high above the bales, and so high that
both uttered an exclamation.

“Great Scott!” breathed Victor. “Why--why----”

“Say, who are you?”

A shrill childish treble came from the towering figure, which
immediately began to move around the barricade of bales toward them.
The boys watched him with breathless interest.

“Say, who are you?”

They craned their necks to look up at the face that gazed into theirs,
but the obscurity was so great that neither could determine the age,
the character, or the appearance of the singularly tall being whose
voice resembled that of a fourteen-year-old boy.

“I say--what’s the matter? Who are you, anyway?”

The third inquiry came in petulant, piping tones.

“If we could find a step-ladder,” began Victor, struggling
unsuccessfully to repress his mirth, “it----”

“That’s always the way. I’m the most miserable chap in the whole world.”

Victor lighted a match, and, shielding the fluttering flame in the
hollow of his hand, deliberately directed the rays into the face of the
giant. They saw a small, well-shaped and extremely boyish head crowned
with dark brown hair.

“Well, now, I hope you are satisfied.” The shrill treble held a note of
resignation.

“Goodness gracious! How old are you?” demanded Victor.

“Fifteen. And I’m the most miserable chap in the----”

“Why--what’s the matter?” inquired Dave.

“You’d better ask me what isn’t the matter,” answered the young giant,
with a long, deep sigh. “Come on--sit down. I do so want to talk to
somebody before Peter Whiffin gets here.”

“Peter Whiffin! Who’s he?”

“General manager of Ollie Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless Circus
and Menagerie. He doesn’t allow me to talk to people. You see”--the
giant, leading the way, paused until he had settled himself on a bale
of hay, where, after a great deal of difficulty, he managed to dispose
of his long legs in a comfortable fashion--“well, it’s this way,” he
went on, dolefully: “Peter Whiffin doesn’t believe in giving anything
for nothing. I belong to the show--see? People must pay to look at the
giant; so I’m smuggled around in the dark. It’s awful. Mustn’t talk
to strangers; mustn’t do this, or that. An’ when anybody does see me
outside the tents I’m followed an’ stared at, an’ made fun of. Oh, but
I’m so sick of it! An’, do you know----”

The young giant’s wailing notes ceased, and he peered eagerly around.

“Well?” questioned Dave.

“I’m still growing.”

“Goodness gracious!”

“Yes; it’s a fact--an’ most seven feet now.” The giant seemed almost on
the verge of blubbering. Then, with an effort, he controlled his voice.
“But say, who are you?”

“One member of the Rambler Club, and one near-member,” grinned Victor.

“There it goes again--always the same; every one has to guy me. Oh, I’m
the most miserable chap in the whole----”

“Avast there, my hearty!” laughed Dave. “I’ll explain.” And he did,
while the giant listened with rapt attention.

“Oh, if I could only do something like that, too,” he murmured, when
Dave had concluded. “What a dandy lot of fun you fellows are going to
have. But it’s no use!”

“Hey, Georgy--oh, Georgy! Where in thunder are you?”

“There’s Peter Whiffin.” The giant raised his voice. “Over here, Mr.
Whiffin.”

The circus manager, scarcely seen in the gloom, and coming from
the direction of the lights, increased his pace, scrambling around
obstructions, and giving vent to his displeasure at the weeds and
inequality of the ground by emphatic exclamations.

“Well, what’s all this?”

Peter Whiffin had a querulous voice and a manner which went singularly
well with it. He was a small man, and Victor’s method of throwing
light on the subject by means of a match immediately disclosed sharp
features, a pair of shifting gray eyes, a face lined with hollows and
wrinkles, and a yellow moustache which drooped despondently at the
corners.

“Well, blow me--if you ain’t ’bout the coolest I ever see!” exclaimed
Peter Whiffin, when the fluttering flame had vanished. “You’ve got your
nerve with you, hey?”

“Always carry plenty of it in stock,” said Victor, calmly.

“See here, Georgy, didn’t I tell you not to gab with every stranger
that comes along?”

“I have to talk to some one, Mr. Whiffin; I’m so miserable.”

“Well, well! Says he is miserable! Did you ever hear the like o’ it!”
The manager’s tones bespoke the deepest disgust. “Why, ain’t he makin’
more money in a week than most people in a month? Well, well!”

Mr. Peter Whiffin’s emotions seemed to rise to such a point as to
almost choke his utterances. He strode to and fro for a moment, then
exclaimed:

“I’ve a good mind to fetch you one right in the ribs. It’s
ingratitood--it’s worse. An’ his pap a-gittin’ paid every week as
reg’lar as the clock ticks! I’ll plunk you for that, I will.”

“But I don’t want to get plunked,” wailed the giant, with a catch in
his voice.

“Well, then, don’t git off no more sich nonsense. Miserable, indeed!
That ’ud be somethink for your pap to hear ’bout, eh? Ain’t there no
thanks in that nature o’ yourn?”

“What have I to be thankful for, Mr. Whiffin? If I was only like these
boys here I’d give anything in the world.”

Peter Whiffin snorted with indignation. He did more. Seizing the giant
roughly by the arm, he commanded him to move, and move fast, under
penalty of receiving an assorted number of hooks, straight lefts,
and right uppercuts, and accompanied his remarks with an exhibition
of these same blows, all coming perilously near the person of the
complaining giant.

“If this here chatter ain’t a bit more’n the limit,” he growled. “An’
me not knowin’ what I’m a-goin’ to do for a barker to-morrow!”

“What’s the matter with Jack Gray?” asked George, forgetting his
troubles for an instant.

“He’s went an’ took sich a cold that his voice sounds like a frog
croakin’; that’s what’s the matter. If I ain’t in a mess for a spieler
my name ain’t Whiffin. I can’t do it meself; an’ there ain’t nobody
worth shucks in the hull shootin’ match.”

The voice of the unhappy manager gradually grew faint in the distance,
then, presently, became lost altogether amidst the medley of noises
that arose on all sides.

“Say, Brandon, think of that poor little giant standing for all of
Peter Whiffin’s fresh talk,” said Victor, disgustedly. “Why, if he’d
just start falling----”

“And if Peter got caught beneath him it would make a mighty sad story,”
grinned Dave.

The two walked out beyond the grim shadows of the wagons, directing
their course toward the light and activity beyond. Already the canvas
of the “big top” was looming high in the air, a dim, shapeless patch of
ghostly white. The rumble of vehicles had given place to the clink and
rattle of harness, as teams were unhitched and driven across the lots.

A crowd of shouting children surrounded three elephants, while others
flocked around closed cages, uttering comments which revealed their
curiosity regarding the strange and savage inmates. Boys carrying
buckets of water passed and repassed, straining their little arms to
an alarming extent, but feeling sure that they were having the time of
their lives.

Dave and his companion soon found themselves in the thick of the fray
watching a pair of sturdy horses hitched to the end of a long rope
which led to a block and tackle.

Crack! The driver’s whip echoed sharply. Away they went. The center
of the big top was drawn slowly up to its highest point on the middle
pole, and, within a short time, the limp canvas began to straighten
and assume the form of a circus tent.

“Jolly well done, that,” commented Dave. “Spudger’s Great Combined
Peerless Circus and Menagerie looks like a winner to me. And the mess
tent is all up, too.”

They moved off toward it, each occasionally halted by piles of rubbish.
Twice Victor put his foot into an unseen hole, then cracked his shin
against a piece of board.

“Makes a pleasant variety, doesn’t it?” said Dave, as he heard his
companion’s howl of disapproval.

“Pleasant?” snapped Victor. “It’s a wonder something hasn’t risen up
off the ground and broken my legs. Are we about to fall into the town
ash-pit, or what?”

“We may escape such a fate as that.”

Victor laughed.

“Well, Brandon,” he said, “if it hadn’t been for your encouragement to
the paper industry my ankle wouldn’t be aching like the dickens.”

“Or we shouldn’t have seen the circus, either,” returned Dave, “which
shows that some good has come from my poems, after all.”

At the mess tent they found preparations for feeding the workers going
on briskly. But their attention became speedily attracted toward
several tents in which the horses were being stabled.

“Makes me think of Wyoming and old broncho days,” went on Dave, softly.
“Guess I won’t do any more riding, though, for a mighty long time.”

“Oh, fade away with such boasting,” said Victor. “Nothing could make me
believe that you ever rode a broncho.”

“Why, I----”

Dave didn’t get far with his protest.

“Fade!” roared Victor. And the stout boy concluded to abide by the
command.

It was not until half an hour later that the two turned away from the
noise and chaotic confusion in which Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless
Circus and Menagerie was still involved.

“I shouldn’t mind seeing the show,” remarked Victor, “but at ten
o’clock sharp to-morrow morning Uncle Ralph’s yacht pulls out.”

“And our motor car will leave about two P. M.,” said Dave. “So,
unless something happens mighty soon, the adventures of the Rambler
Club in this part of the country will add only a few dozen pages to my
history.”




CHAPTER VI

JOE RODGERS


Early on the following morning the crowd was sitting in Bob Somers’
room at the hotel. Tom Clifton, at first just mildly vexed, threatened
to become real angry. Victor’s saucy face and ready tongue promised,
before very long, to call down upon his head a storm of wrath from the
future physician.

“I tell you these by-laws and Bob Somers’ ball nine will make a fine
stir among the chaps at the Kingswood High,” he snapped, sternly.

“Read your old by-laws,” challenged Victor, with an aggravating grin.

“I’ll not read ’em,” Tom flung back in icy tones.

“It’s all a pipe dream. Don’t believe the club will ever be formed,
anyway.”

“Then don’t!”

“All right--I won’t!”

“But I’ll bet that before you’re three-sixteenths of an inch taller,
just the same, we’ll have played half a dozen games.”

“Oh my, oh my! Is that so?” jeered Victor.

“Yes, it is so!”

“Come, come, boys,” interposed Dave, smilingly. “No joking, now.
Remember to-day is the day when our paths will be separated by a waste
of water.”

“A little of it sprinkled on that flowery remark wouldn’t be wasted,”
chirruped Victor. “See here, Clifton!”

“Well?”

“Going out with us now?”

“No! I haven’t finished yet. You chaps skip along. But don’t forget to
come back in time.”

Victor was ready with a parting shot.

“Just suppose I should shanghai the whole bunch on board the ‘Fearless’
and take ’em clean to Milwaukee?”

“That’s the way I’d expect them to go, unless they got all smeared up
with cylinder oil,” growled Tom.

“Listen to the smart Aleck! I mean, wouldn’t you be some scared?”

“Hey?” Tom’s usually gruff voice took on an odd note of shrillness.
“Hey?” he repeated, with a rising inflection. “Scared of what?”

“Why, to take that big car out alone.”

Tom’s forbearance was not proof against such insinuations.

“Well, I should rather say not!” he exclaimed, hotly. “I’d drive from
Kenosha to Kingswood without the quiver of an eye.”

“Hear--hear!--A new way to propel a motor car just discovered by
Chauffeur Clifton: no clutch; no gasoline required; ‘without the quiver
of an eye’ runs a car three hundred miles.”

“Oh, you’re mighty brilliant,” snapped Tom.

“Then don’t try to light on me. Are you going to be a flopper, Clifton?”

“A flopper! What in the mischief is that?”

“Well, it’s just like this----” Victor grinned in his most irritating
fashion. “If the boys shouldn’t happen to turn up you’ll know they’ve
gone to Milwaukee with me--see? Now, to flop would mean that----”

“I hadn’t the nerve to take a flyer alone, I suppose?” supplemented
Tom. For an instant he scowled almost savagely. Then, catching a wink
from Dave Brandon, the expression of his face suddenly softened. He
gave a quiet laugh. “Can’t string me, lad; oh no!”

An approving nod from the historian rewarded this remark.

“Hope it doesn’t rain,” observed Bob, carelessly.

The boys glanced through the window-panes at an even gray expanse of
cloud against which the opposite buildings cut sharply.

“Looks mighty threatening,” admitted Dave. “Isn’t any worse than
yesterday, though.”

“Come ahead, fellows. We’ll start out, anyway,” cried Bob. “So-long,
Tom. Good luck!”

“Say, you Indians, he’s the easiest chap to jolly I ever came across.”

Victor opened the conversation in this agreeable style the moment the
four had stepped into the street.

“You’d better leave Tom alone,” cautioned Bob.

“He might take the law into his own hands,” drawled Dave. He smiled
whimsically. “When Tom gets started----”

“It must be something awful,” finished Victor, with a gurgle of mirth.

“Clifton’s a mighty fine chap, Vic,” declared Charlie, reprovingly.
“Wait till you know him a bit better. Where away, Bob?”

“It’s Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless Circus and Menagerie for me.”
Victor spoke in tones which admitted of no argument. He poked Dave
playfully in the ribs. “How about it, Brownie?”

The historian grinned complacently.

“I’m willing. What do you say, fellows?”

“Well, I wanted to take another look at Captain Bunderley’s yacht,”
answered Bob, slowly. “Still----”

“Run along, then,” grinned Victor. “Brandon’s on my side. Where do you
stand, Blakelets? Don’t hesitate. He who hesitates is lost.”

“No one ever could be in a nice little place like Kenosha,” said
Charlie, with a faint smile.

“Very good--that is for you. Which is it--circus or boat?”

The “grind” had long since outgrown such amusements as the circus.
Thoughts of the sawdust arena conjured up before his mental vision
nothing but frivolity and foolishness, so a prompt, “I’m with Bob,
Vic,” answered the query of the lawyer’s son.

“My name isn’t Bob Vic,” smiled Victor.

The smile presently grew into a laugh of such proportions that he began
to slap his knees in the paroxysm of mirth.

“Well?” demanded Bob, somewhat astonished.

“For goodness’ sake, what is the matter now?” asked Charlie. “You’re
the funniest chap I ever saw. Cut it out. People are looking.”

“Let ’em look,” gurgled Victor. “Something rich just struck me. Ha, ha!
Maybe Brandon could get a job as clown. Ha, ha! Wouldn’t that round
face of his look swell touched up with a little powder and paint, eh?
He could read some of those famous poems, too!”

“I’ll give the matter careful consideration,” said Dave,
good-naturedly. “And you might try for the position of animal tamer.”

“I’m an Indian tamer, now,” piped Victor. He seized Dave’s arm, jerking
him around. “You and I are going this way, Brownie. So-long, Boblets.
In about an hour we’ll meet you and Blakelets at the wharf.”

“All right,” laughed Bob. “I guess you’ll find us swapping land tales
for the sea tales of Captain Bunderley. So-long.”

Victor’s delicate fingers closed tightly around Dave’s wrist.

“Come ahead fast,” he ordered, imperiously. “Must be an awful lot to
see around that show.”

In a short time the two turned a corner where they came in sight, far
ahead, of a group of dull gray tents and tarpaulin-covered wagons.

On the lot the two boys found, despite the early hour, a scene of great
activity. Stock was being watered or fed, while performers and other
employees crowded the men’s tent. Huge wagons cast blurred shadows over
the ground. One lone chariot, left outside to whet the appetite of the
curious, stood before the main entrance. Its gilt ornamentation, of
wondrous curves and twists, framed a painting in which the artist had
allowed his fervid imagination full sway. A hunter, in the African
wilds, lay in the midst of tall, tangled grass with the paws of a
gigantic lion planted on his breast. The animal’s mouth, astonishingly
wide open, revealed a row of glistening teeth.

“That artist was certainly great on the dental work,” pronounced Victor.

To another school of art, according to Dave, belonged several huge
canvases which flanked the main entrance. These were painted with a
bolder, broader touch, and represented “Adolphus,” the world-renowned
boy giant, “Zingar,” the celebrated dwarf, “Monsieur Ormond de
Sylveste,” wizard of bareback riders, in his speed-defying and
world-stupefying exhibition, “Tobanus,” the apparently jointless
wonder, a contortionist and sword swallower, and, lastly, “Colossus,”
“Titan,” and “Nero,” the three great African elephants whose stupendous
feats had amazed the whole civilized world.

“Some show, this,” laughed Victor, his eyes roaming over the scene with
great interest.

They crossed the lot, peeped into the mess tent, then wandered from
place to place, sometimes walking in the shadow of monster wagons or
long trucks whose heavy wheels were often sunk deep in the turf.

“Looks as if Spudger’s was here for life,” commented Victor.

“And yet the circus will probably leave to-night,” said Dave. “A
strenuous life, indeed--positively makes me weary even to think of it.
Oh ho! Come on, Vic.”

A nice, comfortable-looking stump a few yards away had attracted
the historian’s attention. Its call was altogether too strong to be
resisted. Unheeding the loud expostulations of Victor, he walked over,
and, with a sigh of satisfaction, seated himself upon it.

“A fine place to get a good perspective of the show, Vic,” he
exclaimed. “I’d like to make a sketch.”

“It won’t be done while I’m here,” said Victor, in positive tones;
“unless,” he added, mischievously, “you can work while your neck is
being tickled with a blade of grass.”

“Tyrant!” laughed Dave. He raised his finger warningly. “I give notice,
however: no power can budge me for at least five minutes.”

Victor looked displeased.

“That’s a challenge. We’ll see about it,” he snapped.

The lad immediately made an attempt to convince Dave that his opinion
on the subject was an entirely mistaken one. But all his pushing
and tugging merely resulted in Victor making himself quite hot and
uncomfortable.

It annoyed him very much indeed.

A second and more strenuous effort to dislodge the stout boy brought
forth a mild protest.

“Quit it!” commanded Dave.

“Humph; I don’t have to!”

The next instant Victor found his wrists being held in a grip of steel.

“Let go, Brandon; let go!” he stormed. “I’ll punch your head if you
don’t.”

“Promise to stop, Vic?”

“No; I’ll promise nothing, you big Indian, you large spot in the
landscape! Let go!”

“Only when I have your word, Vic.”

Victor struggled furiously to free himself.

“How dare you grab me like that, Brandon?” he howled. “Ouch! It hurts
like fun. Gee, if I don’t get square with you for this I never saw a
senator--and my father’s best friend’s a senator!”

“Hello, Jumbo, what’s up?”

This salutation, uttered in very loud tones, put a stop to further
hostilities.

Both instantly turned.

A lad--and a very odd-looking lad indeed--had just stepped from behind
a wagon and was surveying them with a curious mixture of amusement and
surprise. He appeared to be about fifteen years of age. His round,
chubby face was liberally besprinkled with freckles; a mop of thick
yellowish hair, supporting a dilapidated cap, straggled across a broad
forehead, the wind occasionally blowing it in his eyes.

Dave found it difficult to repress a laugh.

“Looks like a real little character,” he said, softly, to himself.

“Hello, Jumbo, what’s up?” repeated the boy.

He shuffled forward, his movements being somewhat impeded by a huge
bucket of water in one hand and a broom in the other.

“Say--if ye’re abusin’ that little kid I won’t stan’ for it. Do you get
me?” he exclaimed.

Victor, already angry, bristled up.

“Why, we were only fooling, you silly duffer,” he retorted; “and----”

“Good-morning!” put in Dave, politely.

“Mornin’! Weren’t no scrap, then? Say, Jumbo, you’re too late;
Whiffin’s hired a fat man a’ready. You lookin’ for a job, Buster?”

Victor swelled up with hot indignation. To be addressed in such
slighting terms by a boy whose rough attire and general appearance
indicated a very low status in society was more than his nature could
stand.

“Get away from here, boy,” he snapped. “We didn’t say anything to you.”

The freckle-faced lad’s mouth flew open. He set down broom and bucket.

“Well, by gum, I said somethin’ to you.”

“And you needn’t say any more. Go on about your business.”

“If yer wasn’t so small I’d fetch you a clip for that.”

Victor’s anger rose to the boiling point.

“Chase him away, you Indian!” he shouted to Dave. “See here, Freckles,
my father is one of the biggest lawyers in Chicago.”

“I wouldn’t keer if he owned a whole sideshow, an’----”

[Illustration: “ARE YOU WORKING FOR THE CIRCUS?”]

“Come, come!” interposed Dave. “This won’t do.” A touch of authority
in his tone stopped a hot reply from Victor. “Are you working for the
circus?--Yes? Well, what is your name?”

“Me name is Mister Joe Rodgers.”

This answer, accompanied by an expansive grin and a wink, to Victor’s
utter astonishment and disgust, brought forth a low chuckling laugh
from the stout boy.

“Come on, Brandon,” urged Victor, stiffly. “You’re keeping the
water-carrier from his job.”

“Say, ain’t them clothes o’ hisn somethin’ fine? Bet he never did a
lick o’ real work in his life. D’ye know what a pay envelope looks
like, bub?”

Victor brandished his small white fists furiously and dashed in front
of the circus boy. But Dave, quickly springing between the two,
prevented actual hostilities.

“Cut it out, Victor,” he said, sternly.

“Get away, you big lump!” howled young Collins. “Take his part--that’s
right. You’ve got a yellow streak a yard wide.”

“By gum, him an’ Peter Whiffin ’ud make a fine pair this mornin’,”
exclaimed “Mister Joe Rodgers,” with a long, critical stare at the
lawyer’s son. “Ha, ha! Whiffin can’t find no barker; he’s up ag’in it
bad. Him an’ him”--he indicated Victor--“is sure like cats that’s had
their tails trod on hard. I’d like to cool ’em off with this bucket o’
water. I’m a purty good feller, I am; I ain’t a bit perwerse. But don’t
nobody rile me.”

“All of which relieves our minds,” remarked Dave, gravely. “Hold on,
Vic!”

Victor, however, thoroughly disgusted, had no intention of waiting.
Only a week before the hand of a senator had patted him on the shoulder
in a fatherly way--and now! Well--“Mister Joe Rodgers” evidently didn’t
know to whom he was talking. It was outrageous; and, what was more,
Dave had calmly permitted both of them to be insulted without even
putting in a word of protest.

“I wish I’d never heard of this confounded bunch of wonders,” he said
in audible tones.

A glance over his shoulder showed Dave looming up close behind and the
water-carrier tramping across the lot with his heavy burden.

“Oh, I’m mad clean through, Brandon,” snapped Victor. “Don’t take my
arm. No; I won’t listen.”

He did, however. Dave had a way that was hard to resist. The
historian’s job was not an easy one, but there were so many interesting
sights and sounds connected with “Spudger’s Peerless” that the angry
look on Victor’s face gradually faded away.

After every portion of the grounds had been visited Victor spoke up.

“It’s time to get over to the wharf, Brandon,” he said. “Guess by this
time Somers has talked Uncle Ralph off his feet.”

“Then, to save him from serious injury, we’ll hurry,” laughed Dave.

“Aren’t you going to say good-bye to your new-found friend, ‘Mister’
Joe Rodgers?”

“A queer little chap,” mused Dave. “Guess I’ll never see him again.”

“And I certainly hope I never shall,” voiced the other, with a growl.

When the two arrived at the wharf an amazing howl of dismay from Victor
was Dave Brandon’s first intimation that something extraordinary had
happened.

The “Fearless” was nowhere to be seen.




CHAPTER VII

DESERTED


Victor stared at Dave in unconcealed astonishment.

“Hello! What do you think of that, Brandon?” he gasped. “The yacht has
actually gone off without me.”

“Of course not, Vic!”

“Perhaps it’s right before my eyes--only I can’t see it?” exclaimed
Victor, witheringly. “Or maybe you think Uncle Ralph is putting the
‘Fearless’ through some funny capers a mile up in the sky?”

“It’s a kind of puzzle, I’ll admit. But----”

“I don’t like it a little bit,” broke in Victor, beginning to pace the
wharf. “Uncle Ralph intended to leave at ten. It’s nine-fifteen now.”

“Very likely he has taken Bob and Charlie on a short cruise,” suggested
Dave, consolingly.

“What for, I’d like to know?”

“So should I.”

“Looks mighty queer to me.” A heavy scowl rested on Victor’s face.
“Let’s get off this old pile of boards, and----”

“Go back to the hotel, I suppose?”

“You suppose wrong, as usual. In the mood I’m in I might give the
by-law committee what I almost handed to Joe Rodgers. Back to that fine
combination of Spudger and Whiffin.”

“But there’s three-quarters of an hour to spare, and the yacht is
almost sure to be back within that time,” objected Dave, glancing at
his watch.

“I won’t wait.”

Dave’s resourcefulness was called into play. By means of a vigorous
argument he managed to prolong their stay for a few moments, at the
expiration of which he found himself alone. Laughing softly, he sat
down on a box on the edge of the wharf.

Ten o’clock arrived. Dave took another careful survey of the river,
but, seeing no signs of the motor yacht, he accordingly walked off to
join the figure loitering in the distance.

“I knew it wouldn’t be there,” was Victor’s greeting.

“Perhaps in a quarter of an hour----” began the stout boy.

“Nix,” interrupted Victor. “Uncle Ralph has kept me waiting; I’ll keep
him waiting. I’m going to the circus.”

“Tyrant!” laughed Dave. “Lead on, Prince. I’ll follow.”

“Here now: don’t you start any funny prattling, Brownie. My name is
Victor.”

“Human nature is indeed a curious study,” sighed the historian.

After another trip to Spudger’s the boys started for the wharf again.

“Gee, if Uncle Ralph isn’t there by this time I’ll give it up,”
remarked Victor.

Uncle Ralph wasn’t there. And if Victor did give it up he kept right on
talking.

The lad’s face reflected his keen disappointment. He was beginning to
feel very angry and disgusted. He was also extremely mystified. What
could it mean?

“It looks as if I’m going to get cheated out of that dandy motor yacht
trip to-day, Brandon.” The scowling lines on his forehead deepened.
“By George, I never felt so mad in all my life. It’s after eleven, now.”

The two were so busily engaged in conversation that they failed to
notice a little fat man who presently emerged from a shanty not far
away and ambled slowly out on the wharf toward them.

With his face wreathed in smiles he approached, coughing in a sort of
apologetic fashion as he said, touching his cap:

“I beg pardon, gents, but I’d like to speak to ye jist a moment.”

Victor eyed his slouchy figure with a disdainful stare.

“No--no; not even a cent!” he exclaimed almost spitefully. “You’re
husky enough to work. Go hustle after a job!”

The humorous light instantly left the little fat man’s eyes, to be
followed by such a ferocious expression that Victor thought it wise to
walk briskly away.

“Wal, if it don’t beat all,” growled the offended citizen. He struck
the palm of his hand a savage blow. “Wonder what the captain ’ud say to
that?”

Finding no answer to this perplexing problem, he started to follow the
retreating lads; then, apparently reconsidering, stopped short.

“They kin find out for theirselves,” he grunted, decidedly.

When Victor, a few moments later, shot a glance over his shoulder he
saw the man walking slowly away from the wharf.

“The idea of a husky lump like that asking for money!” he sniffed.

“He didn’t,” returned Dave.

“Well, he was going to. I’m glad I called him down. And I don’t
care what you say, Brandon, there’s something funny about this boat
business,” Victor almost screeched.

“We’ll go right over to the hotel now, and see Tom,” said Dave, firmly.

There was a significance in his manner which Victor had already learned
to comprehend--it meant that his wishes were to be obeyed. Fuming with
impatience, and feeling a deep sense of personal injury at the way
things had gone, he followed his companion.

“The garage is on our way,” remarked Dave, a few minutes later. “I want
to see if that motor car has been made ready for our trip.”

Benjamin Rochester, the colored lad, with an oily rag and a can of
gasoline in his hand, looked up quickly as their forms were silhouetted
against the open doorway.

“Fo’ de land’s sake,” he gasped, “I thought you fellers had done gone!”

“Hello!” cried Dave.

He looked sharply around the garage. But the huge form of the Rambler
Club’s motor car was not revealed to his eager gaze.

“What has become of our car, Benjamin?” he demanded, sternly.

“De lan’ sake! You didn’t know?”

“Now what’s coming, I wonder!” growled Victor.

“Why, dat tall young gemman has jist took it away, suh,” answered
Benjamin, scenting a mystery, and beginning to show the whites of his
eyes.

“Took it away?” exclaimed Dave, incredulously. “You can’t mean that our
Tom took the machine away?”

“Fo’ de lan’s sake! An’ yo’ didn’t know?”

“Well, this beats the Dutch, and the American, and the English, all
put together!” exploded Victor, so fiercely that Benjamin, somewhat
startled, side-stepped out of range.

“And where was he going?”

“To Milwaukee, suh.”

“To Milwaukee?” echoed Dave and Victor, almost in the same breath.

“Dat’s perxactly what he done said, suh.”

The boys looked at each other in amazement. Victor clenched his small
fists and whistled shrilly, while Dave gazed thoughtfully at the
grinning countenance of Benjamin Rochester.

“Tom gone to Milwaukee!” he murmured, in highly perplexed tones. “And
left no message for us?”

“No, suh; de gemman didn’t say nuffin,” answered Benjamin. He wagged
his head knowingly. “But I had me s’picions, suh; ’deed I had. He acted
awful queer, like he were done skeered, suh; an’ kep’ a-lookin’ an’
a-lookin’.”

“Here, Brownie”--Victor Collins seized Dave’s wrist and fairly dragged
him toward the door--“come right along. I’ve got an idea.”

The instant they were outside, Victor, his eyes sparkling, stopped by
the curb and began a broadside.

“Say, Brandon, remember how I kidded Clifton this morning?” he demanded.

“Yes,” answered Dave.

“Well, I guess he was actually thin-skinned enough to believe I really
meant it. I’ll bet he went tearing over to Uncle Ralph and jollied him
into going off without me.”

“What a ridiculous idea, Vic!” laughed Dave. “Why should Tom have done
such a thing?”

Victor eyed him scornfully.

“Just to get ahead of the game, that’s why. Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t, Vic.”

“Then brush up your perceptive faculties a bit. Here it is a second
time: he was so afraid that I might get Uncle Ralph to take you chaps
to Milwaukee as a joke--see?--that he sets his wits to work, goes over
to the yacht to find out, discovers that you and I are at the circus,
and plays the joke first. See again?”

“Bob and Charlie would never have stood for such a thing,” declared
Dave.

“They would!” returned Victor. “And I know Uncle Ralph; he’s just the
one to fall for a game like that.”

The stout boy raised his hand protestingly.

“Why, Vic!”

“Oh, don’t ‘why Vic’ me!” snapped Victor. “I tell you, Uncle Ralph
Bunderley probably sat down and roared.”

“You won’t think so when you feel in a better humor,” laughed Dave.

“I don’t care what you say, Brandon; that’s the way I figure it out.
Anyway, if that long-legged Indian did engineer it”--he flourished his
fists savagely--“he’ll stop a few of these!”

“Let’s try and reason----”

“There isn’t any reason to it. That Clifton fellow has just turned the
trick; he’s getting square for some of the true things I said about
him.”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Dave.

“Oh, I reckon you’ll stand up for that grand and perfect Clifton.
Honest, though, I didn’t think the sly, foxy Indian would do Brownie up
brown like this.”

Dave, refusing to countenance such an idea, propounded theory after
theory, each of which his companion promptly rejected.

“There’s no use talking, Brandon,” he exclaimed, at length. “I declare,
I’m mad enough to punch his head off. The yacht’s gone; the gasoline
tank’s gone; and we’re here in Kenosha.”

“And I’m likely to stay for some time to come, unless the fellows turn
up.”

The worried expression on the historian’s face gave place to a broad
grin.

“Why?” demanded Victor.

“Because I’m stranded--broke--cast into the seething vortex of life
without gold, silver, nickel, or even copper to lend me a helping hand.”

“How in the dickens did such a thing as that happen?”

“It’s this way, Vic: after I’d paid my way out to Chicago I didn’t have
a red cent left. So I was obliged to throw myself on the tender mercies
of the crowd until we reach Milwaukee.”

“Isn’t this all another joke?” queried Victor, suspiciously.

“Not a bit of it, Vic.”

“Well, if they’ve been lending you cash how is it you’re broke?”

“I was going to get another five from Bob this morning.”

Victor’s eyes began to twinkle. Then, like a flash, his mood completely
changed. A wide grin merged into a laugh; his slender form shook with a
perfect storm of merriment, while Benjamin, from the doorway, looked on
with wondering eyes.

“My, oh my, but don’t I feel sorry for you, Brownie!” he gasped,
between another succession of outbursts. “Broke? Gee! I’ll bet you are
just shaking in your shoes.”

Dave smiled calmly.

“Maybe so, Vic,” he returned, good-naturedly. “Perhaps our stay in
Kenosha may add more pages to my history than I anticipated.”

To Victor’s mind there was something extremely comical in Dave
Brandon’s unexpected situation. His face now actually beamed. Things
were at last breaking in a way to suit him. Without a move on his part,
events had so shaped themselves that at least one member of the Rambler
Club was likely to come tumbling down several pegs in a hurry.

Victor wasn’t really such a bad chap. He simply possessed an
over-supply of the weaknesses of human nature, which had been
fostered--unintentionally, of course--by a too-indulgent parent.

“I’ll lend the big Indian just as much of the cash as he wants,”
reflected the boy, “but he’ll have to get off his high perch and ask me
for it. Gee, won’t I laugh when the great depending-upon-himself fellow
hollers for help!”

In a moment, slapping Dave on the shoulder, he said:

“What are you going to do?”

“Go back to the hotel. Perhaps Tom may have left some message for us.”

“Well, I don’t believe it.”

With a sigh, Dave started off.

“Good-bye, Benjamin,” he called, catching sight of the wondering
colored lad. “I only hope this is ‘much ado about nothing,’ or----”

“It won’t be any ‘Tempest in a teapot’ when I get hold of Wyoming Tom,”
said Victor, decidedly; “and don’t you forget it.”

“Dar am sartingly somethin’ queer ’bout dat dar bunch,” murmured
Benjamin Rochester, shaking his head knowingly.

When the two arrived at the hotel the clerk told them that Tom had left
no message.

“Of course the tall Indian didn’t!” exclaimed the smaller lad.

To his astonishment, Dave ambled slowly into the reception room and
took a seat.

“I say, Brownie,” remarked Victor, “I’m going out to get some grub.”

“Hope you’ll enjoy it,” came an easy response.

“Why in thunder doesn’t he ask?” thought Victor. Then, aloud, he added:

“Aren’t you hungry, Brownie?”

“Sure, Vic; always am.”

“Coming, then?”

“Can’t!”

“Why not?”

“For obvious reasons, my dear sir.”

“Humph! Wants me to offer it to him. Not on your life!” was another of
Victor’s reflections. “How are you going to manage, Brandon?”

“Time will tell, Vic.”

The Chicago boy stood, irresolute; his better nature prompted him
to offer assistance. But the slights Victor imagined he had suffered
suddenly flashed into his mind.

“No; I won’t do it. If the duffer is too all-fired proud to speak up
he’ll get out of his fix the best way he can.”

“No use to wait for me, Vic,” said Dave.

“Just as you say, Brandon. So-long!”

Once outside the room, however, Victor’s conscience smote him. He
walked back and poked his head inside the doorway. “I’ll give him
another chance,” he said to himself.

“Say, Brandon, what’s your program?”

“Time will tell, Vic,” responded the stout boy.

With a snort of disgust, Victor turned on his heel.

“This ought to teach the big Indian a jolly good lesson,” he muttered,
fiercely. “After a while he’ll be singing a mighty different tune.”

When Victor Collins, refreshed by an ample repast, returned to the
hotel he received his third surprise of the day.




CHAPTER VIII

TOM AT THE WHEEL


The moment the door had closed behind his friends Tom Clifton prepared
to make good use of the time.

“Now I’ll be able to finish it up in great shape,” he said softly to
himself.

He listened, his face wearing a very serious expression, until their
cheery voices were stilled by distance, then drawing a voluminous
collection of papers from his inside pocket he spread them out
carefully on the center table and set to work.

Evidently the problems which confronted him were of a very profound and
complex nature. The lines on his forehead deepened; occasionally he
uttered a half sigh, as some particularly knotty point was encountered;
then, losing patience, he rose to his feet and walked toward an
armchair near the window.

Picking up a book, the well-worn appearance of which indicated much
usage, he opened it at random and began to read a description of the
deltoid muscle, its origin, insertion and various functions.

But a treatise on anatomy, just then, couldn’t hold Tom’s attention
long.

“By George, that twenty-second article is a sticker,” he exclaimed,
aloud. “I’ll get it through.” He looked at his watch. “Gee, I’ll have
to hurry. Isn’t Victor the freshest little dub? Afraid to take the car
out alone, am I? He certainly does make me tired.”

When the obstinate twenty-second article was finally conquered the lad
breathed a sigh of relief, and a good-natured grin replaced the scowl
on his face, as he began gathering the loose sheets of paper together.

“It’s a dandy piece of work, all right--bet Dave’ll think so, too,” he
reflected. “We’re going to make some stir in the Kingswood High this
term.”

Tom busied himself for a few moments in replacing his belongings in a
suit case. This done, he glanced at his watch once more.

“It’s most time for ’em now,” he murmured. “Crickets! I’m anxious to
hop into that car again.”

Thoughts of the pleasant journey before them and the sensation which
his by-laws were certainly bound to create were in his mind to the
exclusion of all else, but, as time passed by, the former steadily
gained the ascendency.

“What’s keeping those chaps, I wonder?” Tom, in his impatience, paced
the floor. “They ought to have been here before this.”

The next quarter of an hour was really a distressing period to the tall
boy. Every step in the corridor, every voice which penetrated into the
room, made his heart beat with hope. But as each faded away it left him
annoyed, even angry.

“Never knew Bob Somers to fail in his word before,” he repeated several
times.

Unable to stand the dreary task of waiting any longer Tom slapped on
his cap, and, in a moment, was down-stairs at the door.

He looked searchingly along the street in both directions. But there
were no familiar faces in the ever-passing throng.

“Hang it all,” he growled. “If we were in Chicago I might understand
it, because there’s a fire every few minutes, or some kind of a rumpus
going on. But here!--Why don’t those chaps come back?”

No answer was suggested by the mental query which insistently
propounded itself; so, finally, with a last long look and grunt of
disapproval, Tom climbed back to Bob Somers’ room. The book on anatomy
reappeared, and the student, with an air of deep injury, once more
began to read.

It was, at length, fully fifteen minutes beyond the time appointed for
the yacht to leave.

Suddenly Tom sat bolt upright. He seemed as startled as though some one
had clapped him unexpectedly on the shoulder.

Could it be possible?

He drew a long, deep breath. A dreadful suspicion had entered his head.
He tried to cast it off with scorn; but, somehow, the thought would
not down. Were the boys testing his courage? Had they actually gone
away with Victor on the motor yacht? Did the crowd wish to find out how
he stood in relation to the “flopper” class? And yet it wasn’t like
honest, straightforward Bob Somers to act in such a way.

The precious book of anatomy fell unheeded to the floor, as Tom
restlessly paced up and down, while conflicting ideas chased each other
swiftly through his brain.

“I don’t--can’t believe it,” he said, aloud. “Of course not! What a
silly idiot I am. The crowd’ll be here soon. Mustn’t let ’em think they
had me aeroplaning.” He smiled grimly as an idea struck him. “I’ll just
sprint down to the wharf and settle it.”

So Tom, with unseemly haste, again dashed down-stairs, and did almost
“sprint” through the streets in the direction of the river. It was
quite a long distance, too, but probably few had ever covered it in so
short a time.

The moment his eyes rested on the familiar pilings at which Captain
Bunderley’s motor yacht was usually moored he stopped short and uttered
a low whistle. His suspicions were not without foundation, after all.

The “Fearless” had gone.

Yes, the “Fearless” had gone! There could be no doubt about it. Tom
Clifton felt a strange variety of emotions assail him. He eagerly
scanned the river, half expecting to see the yacht somewhere on its
surface. But his search was in vain.

“Well, well! Victor must have actually managed to pull off that trick,”
he growled.

Smarting with indignation, the lad covered the space between him and
the end of the wharf in record time.

A small, stout man sitting on a barrel looked up as he approached.

“Hey,” began Tom, “were you here this morning when that motor yacht
left?”

The stout man, with a whimsical light in his eye, was gazing hard into
the boy’s face.

“Yer hat is a great distance up from the ground, me lad,” he remarked,
casually. “Kin ye see acrost to the lake from there?”

“Oh, cut it out. I’m no lighthouse!” snapped Tom, forgetting politeness
in his ruffled state of mind. “Were you----”

The stout man stopped him.

“I were, for sure,” he answered, emphatically.

“See any boys on board?”

“I did--sure ag’in.”

“Been gone long?”

“Yes, a right smart spell. Runned off without yer, did they, mate? Some
people is mean enough for anythin’.”

Tom was too angry and disturbed to make any reply to this observation.

“My, but wouldn’t I like to punch that little Victor,” he thought. “I
didn’t think it of Bob Somers; or Dave, either. Looks as though the
whole bunch is trying to have a big joke at my expense. Hey?”

The little man was speaking again.

“Ye oughter be real glad ye weren’t took along, mate,” he remarked,
pleasantly. “Ye look kinder peart now; but a right smart spell o’
tossin’ about out there ’ud take that out o’ you. I always says, give
me seasoned water every time.”

“Seasoned water?” queried Tom.

“Sure, mate; some as has plenty o’ salt in it. I’ve sailed on both
kinds, an’ I know.”

“Then I suppose the lake makes you feel a bit peppery at times, eh?”
grunted Tom, as he strode rapidly away.

“Well, of all things!” he exclaimed, hotly, when out of hearing
distance. “Isn’t this the limit! A dandy trip bungled at the very
start; and all on account of that little spoiled kid. By George, they
certainly have put it up to me to take our car to Milwaukee all alone.
Think I’ll ‘flop,’ eh, as Victor calls it? Well, I rather guess not!”

Tom looked very savage indeed; his fists were tightly clenched, and he
glared about him in a way that might have attracted attention had any
observers been near.

The cool gusts of wind which continually swept against the lad,
together with the busy scenes along the wharves, finally began to calm
his belligerent spirit. The first effect of the unpleasant situation
wearing off left him with a dogged feeling of determination to show his
mettle.

Presently Tom sat down on an old box, from which position he had a good
view of the river. But another period of waiting brought no result, and
he rose to his feet more disgusted than ever.

His mind had been busily engaged. He did not intend to let any one,
even his best friends, play jokes on him.

“If the bunch doesn’t turn up mighty fast,” he reflected, “I’ll have a
little fun in that car all by my lonesome. No doubt now--it’s Milwaukee
for mine.”

The boys didn’t turn up. Whereupon Tom, deciding that he had, with
Sherlock Holmes intelligence, made the proper deductions, went back to
the hotel. There he gathered together the few articles of luggage which
the crowd carried with them and paid their bill.

“I’ll be back soon with the car,” he explained, briefly, to the clerk.

At the garage the proprietor was mildly surprised to see only the very
tall lad returning to take charge of the motor car, but, concluding
that it was none of his affair, he made no comments.

The machine seemed to have increased marvelously in size since Tom
had last seen it. In the midst of other vehicles it loomed up in a
positively gigantic fashion. How easily he could picture in his mind
Dave Brandon lolling in comfort on the rear seat. What a strange,
dismal silence hovered over the big car now! A peculiar sense of
loneliness stole over him. He stood, irresolute. Then, in an instant,
and with a shrug of his shoulders, he climbed up to the chauffeur’s
seat.

“Yes, suh, I done filled the tank with gasoline,” explained a smiling
colored lad, in answer to his query. “Dar ain’t nuthin’ to be did.
Whar’s ye goin’, suh, if I might ask?”

“To Milwaukee,” answered Tom.

“Sho, dat am sartingly a fine trip. Yes, suh, de way am clear.”

Tom Clifton’s hand trembled a little as he laid it on the steering
wheel. Without the presence of the others to strengthen his courage
the task of driving the car through the city streets assumed more
formidable proportions than he liked. But, giving the button on the
dash a push, he muttered, determinedly:

“I’ll play the game right to the end.”

In another instant the echoes of the engine’s rapid pulsation thundered
through the garage. A cloud of gasoline vapor swirled aloft, to lose
itself among the rafters. The clutch was thrown on.

“So-long, Benjamin!”

“So-long, Mistah! I done hopes yo hab a bully trip.”

The big touring car slid easily past the doorway; a series of warning
blasts from the horn sounded, and Tom was on the street.

Once outside, with the machine responding to his slightest touch, he
soon began to feel a little easier in mind. Yet how empty the car
seemed! How he missed the cheery voices and merry laughter of his
companions! Why had they allowed themselves to be so influenced by
Victor--why?

And then the thought that he had acted too impulsively flashed through
Tom’s mind.

“Suppose I should find ’em at the hotel? They’d have a jolly good laugh
at my expense, after all,” he reflected.

But, on this point, he need not have disturbed himself. Neither Victor
nor any of the others was at the hotel when the car stopped before the
entrance.

“Those chaps even had the confounded cheek to leave their traps for
me to look after,” grumbled Tom, as the boy in bright brass buttons
assisted him in stowing away the luggage. “Well, all right. The first
inning of the game’s been played. Here’s the beginning of the second.”

Once more the touring car was in motion. With all the responsibility
resting on his shoulders, the lad experienced new and novel
sensations--and most of them were not altogether pleasant. He sadly
missed Bob Somers’ words of caution and advice. Approaching the public
square, with numerous vehicles and pedestrians on all sides, he became
decidedly nervous.

Just as the car rolled toward the principal crossing, around the
corner of which Tom decided to turn, a tall man who had been reading a
newspaper by the curb suddenly stepped out into the street.

With a cry, Tom reached over and sounded the horn sharply. He took
his foot off the clutch and threw on the break. It was an instant of
intense satisfaction to him--and, perhaps, some surprise, when the
touring car abruptly stopped.

And, meanwhile, a flying leap had taken the man to safety.

At the moment of landing, fully a yard from the starting point, his
temper took effect all at once.

“Hey there, what’s the matter? Ain’t you got no eyes?” he demanded, in
amazingly gruff tones.

“Well, that’s a good one!” cried Tom, though his voice was somewhat
shaky. “How--how--about yourself?”

“Don’t pass out any flip talk, now. I won’t stand for it.”

“Better wait until I do.”

The angry citizen paused, took a good look at the tall chauffeur, then:

“Why, you ain’t nothin’ but a kid!” he exclaimed.

Tom’s face flushed.

“I’m old enough to know what I’m doing,” he answered, witheringly.

“You are, hey? There ought to be a law passed against letting fellers
what ain’t cut their eye teeth yet drive regular whaleback ships like
that through the streets. What are you doing in there, anyway, boy?”

“If you throw any more words in this direction you may find out.”

“Got a license for knocking folks down, have you?”

A small crowd had already gathered, and seemed to be thoroughly
enjoying the situation.

“Don’t let ’im faze you, chaufyer,” screeched a very small lad.

Tom, making a strong effort to appear cool and dignified, leaned
forward. His eye caught the tall man’s.

“I’d like to say this,” he roared: “if the city intended the middle of
the street to be used as a place for reading newspapers they’d have put
a few benches and chairs along it.”

Chuckles of mirth came from the audience.

“Ha, ha! You’ve got ’im goin’,” piped a very youthful citizen.

“Goin’! He’s the one that will be goin’!” roared the man whose life had
been saved. “Where’s there a cop? Where’s that officer I saw on the
corner a few moments ago?”

“If he hadn’t gone, too,” cried Tom, looking around, “he’d pinch you
for disorderly conduct and blocking the highway. Get out of the road.
This machine is going to buzz like a sawmill.”

An elderly lady, who disliked everybody that rode in an automobile,
declared to a companion that Tom was the most brazen-looking young
scamp she had ever seen; and, the fact is, he did not at that moment
appear very angelic.

Snorting indignantly, and still somewhat unnerved, Tom threw in the
clutch.

He had expected to spend some time scouting around in the center of
the city. But this experience caused him to decide that the more quiet
streets would do just as well.

“That chap was certainly a grouch,” he murmured, still highly
indignant. “But I guess my remark about the benches squelched him.”

A number of blocks were passed, each instant bringing him nearer to the
wharf where the “Fearless” had been moored.

“Bet, by this time, the yacht is back,” he murmured, hopefully. “I’ll
never let on how the boys had me going, both in and out of the car.”

The river soon swept into view. Tom, peering eagerly ahead, felt his
spirits sink again. A number of boats dotted the gray, gloomy-looking
surface, but the motor yacht “Fearless” was not among the number.

“Well, well! I might have known I was right.”

The car came to a full stop. Tom sat for many minutes absorbed in deep
reflection. Then a grim smile played across his features.

“I’ll show ’em how well I can play the game,” he cried once more to
the empty air. His hand gripped the horn bulb. A resounding blast
instantly followed. “There goes the signal for the third inning. I’ll
make a home run to Milwaukee, and bob up smiling.”




CHAPTER IX

SPEEDING


“I certainly hope we don’t meet any more mean, tricky little kids,”
soliloquized Tom, as the touring car rushed steadily ahead, each
instant leaving the city of Kenosha further and further behind. “By
George--the nerve of him! Well--the fellows will find out that when it
comes to matching wits they haven’t much on me.”

Tom Clifton’s confidence had returned; the strange feeling of
loneliness which at first had persisted in hanging over him, as well as
the half-defined fear of something happening to the motor were rapidly
being dispelled. The six cylinders, operating with perfect precision,
sent off on the breeze their steady vibrating roar. Tom’s cheek was
flushed with the excitement and novelty of his position. He seemed to
have grown into man’s estate at a bound.

“I guess when I meet the yacht at Milwaukee I’ll have the laugh on the
whole bunch,” he thought, with a cheerful grin.

The weather was still threatening. A stiff, cold breeze constantly
blowing in his face made the goggles very acceptable indeed, and he had
found it prudent to put on his heavier coat. Now and again he caught
glimpses of Lake Michigan. Far out on the great body of agitated water
he could see tossing whitecaps gleaming like silver against the gray
background of choppy waves.

“Shouldn’t wonder if I got caught in an awful blow before long,” he
said aloud, somewhat anxiously.

At times the route took him not far from the Chicago and Northwestern
Railroad. Occasionally trains thundered by, their whistles sending
shrieking blasts that died out in throbbing echoes over the dreary
landscape.

Tom felt an almost irresistible impulse to throw on all power and race
these defiant-looking iron monsters, but thoughts of the law and of
sharp-eyed constables deterred him.

At length a village sprang into view ahead. On closer inspection it
seemed to have the usual accompaniments of barking dogs, cackling
geese, and countless chickens.

Only by the narrowest margin were several terrible casualties among the
bird family averted that day. Tom’s heart beat fast with apprehension
as a small army of geese, led by an ancient gander, suddenly swooped
directly in the path of the oncoming machine.

The fierce yells of a blue-shirted man leaning against a fence did not
help to ease his troubled spirit.

“Great Scott!”

The words broke impulsively from Tom’s lips, as, with frantic haste, he
operated the steering wheel.

For an instant he expected to hear an awful cackling ringing in his
ears. But the big touring car swerved sufficiently to clear the rear
guard of frantically flying legs.

“By George! And never even ruffled a feather!” cried Tom, in great
relief.

The village was quickly passed. On reaching a bend a stretch of almost
straight road lay before him. The country looked very deserted and
lonely. Here and there a house, far off in the fields, patches of
trees, or the crooked line of a fence alone broke the monotonous
landscape.

The temptation to “burn up the road” was too great to resist. Tom threw
on power until the telegraph poles seemed to be literally hurling
themselves through space toward him. He had certainly recovered his
nerve, a fact on which he proudly congratulated himself.

But the thrills produced by the terrific speed were of no ordinary
kind, causing him before long to slow down considerably.

“Gee! Now I’ve done it, I won’t do it again,” he muttered, with all the
elation of a chauffeur who has captured a world’s record. “Awful risky,
that! Maybe Bob Somers wouldn’t have opened his eyes. Hello--Racine!”

Beyond an open field houses were coming into view, and still further
beyond several church spires pierced the lowering atmosphere.

At a moderate speed, Tom kept on, while evidences that a busy,
thriving town lay ahead constantly increased. Before long the machine
was rolling over a wide, pleasant avenue lined with houses set some
distance apart, many having fine lawns in front.

As the character of the street changed so did Tom’s feelings. When the
livelier sections of the city were reached nervousness once again had
him in its grip. But, with firm determination, he mastered the tremors
which, for a time, threatened to interfere with his manipulation of the
steering wheel.

“Easy, boy--easy!” he counseled to himself.

The big machine was rounding a corner which reminded him of the one in
Kenosha. “Main Street,” he read on a near-by sign.

“Pretty brisk, too,” murmured Tom. “Must be a busy time of day.”

Clang, clang, clang!

In response to the insistent warnings of a rapidly-approaching electric
car he drew near the curb. Then a two-horse dray swung sharply off from
the car tracks and compelled him to come to a stop.

Tom was just in the humor to call out gruffly:

“Hey, there! Where are you going?”

But the trolley car at that instant whizzed rapidly past, and the boy
concluded, just in time to check the remark, that the driver of the
dray was justified in his action.

This far from exciting incident was the only one which marked the
passage of the motor car through the streets of Racine. Tom, however,
drew a long, deep breath of relief when clanging gongs, blasts of
automobile horns and the rattle of wagons were but a memory and the
open country lay stretched once more before him.

In the middle distance the moisture-laden air seemed to dip down, and
through this veil the views beyond were revealed in misty patches.
Every minute it looked as if the scudding clouds would begin to
dissolve themselves in torrents of driving rain. All vegetation
glistened with cold gray reflections caught from above. Yet, as the
motor car sent the mile-stones, one after another, slipping past, the
expected did not happen.

“It will mighty soon, though, I’m thinking,” mused Tom. “By gum, this
is rather lonely work. Houses ahead! Good! Signs of life out here are
certainly scarce.”

It was a very pretty little village along the principal street of
which the car presently rolled. He caught several glimpses of men
working in fields; of others gathered in front of a store. They hailed
him; he sent an answering salute; then, in a few moments, the last
house had been reached and passed.

As the journey approached its end Tom Clifton’s impatience increased.
Several times he drove the car for short stretches at a clip which
almost rivaled his first daring attempt at speeding. Another village
was passed, and then another. Some distance to his right an occasional
column of rapidly-moving smoke or jets of steam marked the progress of
north or south-bound trains.

“Easy job--I didn’t have any trouble finding the way,” grinned Tom.
“One look at our road map was enough. By George; it’s a lucky thing,
too, that I remember the place where Captain Bunderley said his motor
yacht was always moored at Milwaukee. ‘Right by the East Water Street
bridge, boys,’--those were his very words. She ought to have arrived
by this time. And I know how to steer the machine there straight as a
carrier pigeon scoots for home.”

“Hey there, young feller!”

The motor car was nearing an intersecting road. It bore an appearance
strangely similar to numerous others passed that day, but whereas they
had generally been deserted on this particular one he saw a small
slight man of uncertain age sprinting toward him at a lively rate of
speed.

“Hey there, young feller!” came the hail a second time.

In obedience to the authoritative summons, Tom slowed up, stopping just
as the man, breathing hard, reached the main road.




CHAPTER X

THE CONSTABLE


The Rambler’s gaze rested upon an odd-looking man who wore a gray
beard. His skin was tanned to a coppery color; around his eyes
innumerable wrinkles had formed, giving to his face a curious quizzical
expression.

“Goodness--a county constable!” thought Tom.

The first words he heard confirmed this unpleasant suspicion.

“You’ve been scorchin’, ain’t ye?”

“Scorching?” howled Tom, indignantly. “Why, I never even scorched a
biscuit.”

“That’s a good one. I saw ye.”

“No, sir! It was only a reasonable rate of speed.”

“How many good telegraph poles did ye knock down along the route?”
asked Tom’s questioner, sarcastically.

“I put every one right back in its place.”

“You look like one o’ them pampered fellers. Most likely yer dad’s a
millionaire.”

“Nothing of the sort!” broke in Tom, impatiently.

“What ain’t?”

“What you said.”

“What I said ain’t nothin’ o’ the sort, eh? Wal, it’ll go easier with
yer if ye ain’t forgot the politeness ye l’arned in early youth. Back
there”--he waved a brown finger in the air--“ye scorched; own up now!”
His words were jerked out with incisive emphasis. “Own up now!”

“Maybe I did go a little fast,” admitted Tom, hesitatingly,
“but--but--here! What are you doing?”

The countryman, without waiting for anything further, had calmly
stepped on the running board. He leaned over to open the door.

Next instant the highly-indignant chauffeur saw him climbing into the
car.

“The court-house ain’t so very far,” announced the unexpected
passenger, calmly seating himself on the rear cushions. “Cheer up,
young feller. ’Twon’t be more’n fifteen dollars; an’ if ye hain’t got
it the county allus takes good keer o’ the machine till ye comes out.”

“This is a pretty kettle of fish!” cried Tom, hotly.

“Some o’ the prettiest fish I ever see has been ketched right around
here, son. But don’t let yer machine git rusty. Even machine oil has
riz in price.”

Tom was too disgusted to make any rejoinder. He turned his head, to
stare hard into a pair of twinkling gray eyes. An awkward silence
followed.

“Did you mistake this for a sightseeing car?” demanded Tom, at length.
“Please step right out!”

The other grinned complacently.

“I’m only a little bunch,” he confided, “but when I worked in lumber
camps me pals said I were as strong as a steel trap; and that’s pretty
near so. Nobody has ever put me off an automobile yit.” He laughed
softly. “Feel like trying it?”

“Who are you?” asked Tom, wrathfully.

The man settled the matter beyond all question. From an inside pocket
he produced a small, ominous-looking shield.

“How does that strike ye?” he asked, mildly.

“Then you’re a--a constable, after all?”

“If ye’d guessed a year ye couldn’t hev guessed better. This is a free
country; but when the majesty o’ the law has been damaged fifteen
dollars’ worth----”

“But I didn’t scorch--an’ you know it!” cried Tom.

“Softly, young feller. It’s lucky for you Jack Piker didn’t see that
last lap o’ yourn, that’s all. I’m an easier man than him.”

“I could have gone twice as fast,” insisted Clifton, angrily.

“So much the worse if ye had.”

The boy pleaded and coaxed. There was no reason why he should be
delayed; he was going moderately fast, but not at any rate of speed
that could be considered illegal. None of his arguments, however,
appeared to have the slightest effect upon the little man on the rear
seat. Occasionally a low, chuckling laugh escaped him. The lines around
his eyes deepened.

“When you git finished start ’er up,” he commanded, firmly.

And Tom, fairly boiling over with indignation, “started up.”

He squared his shoulders; his jaws clicked together.

“And it’s all on account of that miserable Victor Collins,” he
muttered. “Never mind! I haven’t been touched out at first yet. Wait
till I get before the justice!”

Tom had so many thoughts to keep his mind occupied that the next
town emerged into view through the gloomy haze ahead with surprising
suddenness.

“South Milwaukee,” announced a gruff voice from the rear.

Tom scorned to reply.

The hum of smoothly-working machinery, the soft whirr of wheels and the
chant and moan of the wind were the only sounds which broke the silence
as the distance became less and less.

Finally the motor car was on the principal street of the town. Tom had
been expecting every instant to receive orders to proceed at once to
the hall where justice held full sway, but, so far, the little man,
beyond hailing several acquaintances with considerable enthusiasm, had
remained silent.

“Ah--now it comes!”

A long finger was tapping his shoulder.

“Stop!” commanded the passenger.

Tom looked hastily about him, but could see no building suggestive of a
court-house.

The machine drew up to the curb and came to a halt.

“I certainly am much obliged to you, son.”

“Eh? What do you mean?” queried Tom, in surprise.

The little man’s eyes were twinkling merrily. Suddenly he burst into
a series of loud guffaws, while young Clifton’s look of astonishment
momentarily increased.

“Ain’t I speakin’ English?”

“Hang it all; I--I don’t understand it.”

“Ha, ha! Of course ye don’t. But ask anybody nigh-abouts who knows
Jerry Dinglar an’ they’d tell ye he’s the greatest practical joker in
town. I simply can’t help it.”

“You--you--surely don’t mean that this is all a lark, do you?”
exclaimed Tom, hopefully.

One square look into Mr. Dinglar’s eyes was enough to reveal the truth.

“Great Scott!”

Tom breathed a sigh of relief. He felt so joyous that his anger melted
entirely away. Willingly he seized and shook the lean brown hand which
was thrust toward him, suppressing with difficulty a desire to indulge
in boisterous mirth.

“Only a joke!” he exclaimed. “Ha, ha!--But”--his face suddenly became
grave again--“aren’t you really a constable?”

“I’m the greatest stickler for facts you ever heard of,” confided Mr.
Dinglar. “Sure I am a constable. Now let me tell you somethin’--let it
soak in good, too: back there ain’t in my jurisdiction; Piker attends
to that most o’ the time, an’ I’m generally off to the north o’ here.
But I wanted to git a lift inter town--understan’? An’ when I see a
young chap comin’ along swift as an Injun arrow I makes up my mind to
hev it. See the p’int?”

Tom admitted that he caught the idea.

“But why in thunder didn’t you just ask me?” he inquired.

Jerry Dinglar shook his head.

“Me friends all like me well enough, but I’ll wager they’d give
somethin’ big if I’d only move out o’ the county, yes, they would.”
His chuckling laugh came again. “See the p’int?”

Tom nodded.

“I had to hev my little joke; an’ you look enough like my own son to be
his brother.”

Tom turned his face away to hide a rather odd expression.

“Only he ain’t stretched out to ’most the breakin’ p’int, as you are,”
added the official. “Anyway, it made me do you a good turn.”

“How?” asked Tom, interestedly.

“If Jack Piker had saw what I see’d it would hev been fifteen dollars’
worth o’ law busted, sure. Better take advice o’ one who introduces
automobile fellers to the judge every week--be keerful; don’t do it
ag’in. That’s what I was wantin’ ter impress on yer mind--understan’?”
The little man clapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t know where ye come
from, an’ I don’t know where ye’re goin’, but I like ye, ’cause you kin
take a joke. See the p’int?”

Tom grinned.

“Sure! Some chaps are so thin-skinned they get mad at everything,” he
said, loftily.

“That’s it. Good-bye, an’ much obleeged!” And, with these words, the
little constable hopped nimbly to the ground, gave a parting wave of
his hand and walked rapidly away.

“By George, that’s a comical one for you,” said Tom, to himself. “I
feel just like a chap who has beaten the ball to first. Ha, ha! I
wasn’t scorching, though; that is, not when he saw me. But still”--he
smiled rather grimly--“I’d better be on the safe side and crawl the
rest of the way.”

Once more the machine was in motion. South Milwaukee soon fell far
behind and within a half hour he was approaching the city. A confused
mass of buildings, and an occasional chimney rising high above them,
lifted themselves faintly from obscurity. Here and there factory smoke
raced with the low-hanging clouds and deepened their lowering surfaces
into a still darker tone.

Tom paid no heed to the depressing air of gloom which seemed to pervade
all nature. He was too anxious to reach the East Water Street bridge
and bring his lonely trip to a close.

And suppose the motor yacht “Fearless” should not be there, after all?

This unpleasant thought, occasionally penetrating Tom’s armor of
confidence, brought an expression of deep concern to his face.

“Well, in that case, I suppose I’ll have to play the game some more,”
he sighed. “Anyway, it’s up to me to make good; and I will.”

The outskirts were quickly passed. The scattering array of houses gave
place to thickly built up sections, which, as he progressed, became
more and more lively. At length Tom drove along Kinnikinnic Avenue,
finally crossing the river of the same name. Then the motor car
swung into Clinton Street, and, on a straight road, leaped forward,
overtaking and nosing past every vehicle bound in the same direction.

Tom, in his impatience, forgot all self-consciousness, handling the car
with a skill almost equal to that of Bob Somers’. His heart was beating
high with hope and expectancy.

A deep, hoarse whistle vibrating over the air told of traffic on the
Milwaukee River. The sound brought with it, too, the pleasing message
that his goal was almost reached.

Within a few minutes he would know--what?

Up to the limit of speed allowed by law dashed the motor car, Tom
eagerly straining his eyes for the first glimpse of the East Water
Street bridge, which, according to his map, must be just ahead.

“Ah ha; there it is!”

The draw was opening to allow a boat to pass. Tom saw the great arms of
the structure rising higher and higher against the sky. To the left the
bold, impressive lines of a whaleback steamer loomed up, with flags on
its fore and aft masts straightened out in the wind.

Presently the dull, leaden-looking water of the Milwaukee River flashed
into view. At the East Water Street bridge its course toward Lake
Michigan changes to a southeasterly direction. Another moment, and
Tom’s eyes were roving swiftly over the stream.

A pang of bitter disappointment shot through him--the “Fearless” was
not in sight.

He threw out the clutch and the motor car stopped.

“Stung again, maybe!” groaned the chauffeur. He sat motionless for an
instant, deep in thought, then mumbled, “What a silly chump I am! Come
to think of it, Captain Bunderley said ‘Near the bridge.’ I can’t do
much scouting around in this car, so I’ll shoot it over to the nearest
garage and sprint right back.”

A boy, in answer to his inquiries, directed him to cross the bridge and
keep straight on until Wisconsin Street was reached.

“Guess you’ll find one along there,” he said. “Say, ain’t that a
whopping big machine! How much do you get a week for running it?”

“Twice as much as nothing,” answered Tom, with a faint grin.

As soon as the bridge settled back into place the motor car was put in
motion. Tom directed his course along East Water Street, driving with
great caution, until he reached an important business section. Not far
from Wisconsin Street he found a garage and left his machine.

The next thing that Tom Clifton did was to hunt up a restaurant and
refresh himself with a good meal. This acted so wonderfully upon his
spirits that he walked out on the street feeling renewed confidence in
the correctness of his deductions.

“Bet I’ll find the yacht in half an hour,” he said to himself. “Here’s
where the hunt begins.”

But although Tom Clifton thoroughly explored the river in the
neighborhood of the East Water Street bridge, the late afternoon found
him still searching, with hope gone down to the zero point.

“I’ve made the circuit of the bases and been put out at home,” he
muttered. “What do you think of that for awful luck!”




CHAPTER XI

GETTING A JOB


Benjamin Rochester was not the only person in Kenosha into whose brain
a germ of suspicion concerning the boys had found lodgment. The very
dapper and polite hotel clerk, having overheard scraps of conversation
between Dave and Victor which plainly indicated an unusual state of
affairs, set his thoughts in motion.

“It did seem mighty odd to me when that long-legged chap beat it,” he
murmured, softly. “Queer, too, that a parcel of boys should be sporting
around in a machine fit for a multi-millionaire. I won’t say there’s
anything wrong about it, but----”

A step attracted his attention.

Dave Brandon, wearing his usual good-natured smile, had approached the
desk.

“I was wondering if I could be accommodated here for a few days,” began
the historian, blandly. “You see----”

The clerk smiled affably. He also coughed apologetically. His thoughts
ran like this: “Oh, no, my fine fellow, you can’t work any slick scheme
on us.” Then he said:

“Very sorry, sir, our terms are strictly cash in advance, especially
when luggage has been taken away. Of course I don’t doubt that you’re
all right,” he added, in a tone which expressed all the doubt in the
world.

“Oh!” exclaimed Dave.

“Yes,” said the clerk.

The historian remained thoughtful for a moment.

“Pardon me,” he said, quietly turning away.

“He looks like a pretty good sort,” mused the clerk, glancing at Dave’s
retreating form. “Still, you never can tell; usually they’re the
slickest kind.”

A few minutes later Dave reappeared.

“When Victor Collins comes in will you kindly give him this?” he said,
handing the clerk a sealed envelope.

Once outside, Dave, with a twinkle in his eye, began to walk as though
he had some important mission to perform.

“Well, well!” His smile broadened. “I was certainly never placed in
such a remarkable situation before. It has an element of grim humor
in it, too. But for this hungry feeling I’d laugh out loud. Stranded!
Think of the fearfulness of it! Actually stranded!”

Dave’s reflections, however, did not drive away his cheerful expression.

“Now that the chaps have disappeared,” he mused, “their kindly support
must needs be withdrawn. Here I am, left high and dry on the shores of
adversity, with two awful alternatives facing me: to borrow, or not to
borrow; to depend upon myself, or not to depend upon myself.”

The humor of it all appealed irresistibly to the historian; he laughed
to himself, although his eyes were turned longingly toward a restaurant
in the window of which a tempting collection of food products was
displayed.

“There’s no telling how or when we fellows will get together
again,” mused Dave. “Something has to be done quickly. I believe
I’ve struck the best plan. Anyway, it won’t do any harm to try it.
Although”--he laughed aloud--“I reckon little Vic will be considerably
surprised--even shocked.”

Dave had completely thrown off his usually languid air. He walked
briskly, with a certain look in his eye which his chums would have
known meant a determination not to be swerved.

He slackened his rapid pace only when a group of circus tents finally
appeared in view. A few minutes later he crossed the lot, directing his
steps toward the mess tent.

He found it crowded with men and women seated before rough board
tables. A savory odor filling the enclosure made Dave sniff the air
with keen relish. It also served to increase his tremendous desire for
a good square meal.

Several waiters in white caps and aprons, balancing trays, hustled
along the narrow aisles. A constant rattle of dishes and the jingle of
knives and forks mingled in with the buzz of conversation. Sometimes
a bawling voice sharply punctuated this medley of sound, and now one
close at hand suddenly roared out:

“Hey! Watcher want?”

Dave looked around, to find himself the target for many pairs of
staring eyes. It was a little embarrassing--very little, however. He
looked over the rows of grinning faces and was about to reply when a
boy not far off suddenly popped up from his seat.

“Well, if it ain’t Jumbo ag’in!”

A roar of mirth echoed through the mess tent. Sallies began flying
thick and fast. Dave, however, stood his ground.

“I’m looking for Mr. Whiffin,” he said, calmly.

Joe Rodgers, arrayed in the reddest of red vests, put his small form
in motion, and, with remarkable disregard for the feet and shins about
him, pushed his way forward.

“Hey!” screeched Joe, shaking his fist at a particularly loud-voiced
person who was busy hurling questions at Dave. “Let that ’ere feller
alone. I’m his guardeen.”

“Where is Mr. Whiffin, Joe?” asked Dave.

“I dunno. But if ye hear a row goin’ on anywheres steer fur it, an’
you’ll find him,” answered Joe. “What d’ye want with ’im, anyway?”

Dave, uttering a sigh of relief, withdrew from the curious stares, the
loud voices and general noise and confusion which pervaded the tent.
Joe was at his side.

“What d’ye want with Whiffin, Jumbo?” he repeated.

“Joe,” remarked Dave--he placed his hand on the lad’s broad
shoulder--“if you don’t mind, I’d rather you’d call me Dave--Dave
Brandon’s my name.”

“All right. I’ll call you Dave Jumbo,” said Joe, gravely.

The historian burst into a hearty laugh.

“Dave Jumbo?”

“Oh, I’m wise to what ye wants, Dave.” Joe stared earnestly into the
other’s face for an instant. “Ye’re a good feller, all right--I kin see
that,” he exclaimed. “Say,--what’s became o’ the little grouch?”

Dave explained.

“Gone off for to eat, eh? Well, did ye take sich a fancy to Whiffin ye
couldn’t stay away from the show, eh?”

“Joe, I’m looking for a job.”

Joe’s eyes bulged out with real astonishment.

“What--what!” he gasped. “You’re kiddin’ me, for sure.”

“Oh, no; I mean it, Joe.”

“But say, what does a feller wearin’ clothes like them you’ve got on
want with a job?” The idea apparently staggered “Mister” Joe Rodgers.
He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. “Aw, git out!” he
sniffed, after a moment of deep reflection. “Ye can’t git across with
no sich stuff as that.”

It took Dave five minutes of valuable time to make Joe credit the
earnestness of his intention. But once convinced, Joe immediately
became the historian’s enthusiastic ally.

“But--but I don’t believe ye kin do it,” he said, doubtfully.

“Lead me to Whiffin, and we’ll see,” laughed Dave.

After a short search they found the manager of “Spudger’s Peerless” at
the entrance to the main tent.

“Well?” he demanded, as Dave spoke up.

“I understand that you need the services of a good barker,” began Dave.

“What’s that to you?” demanded Peter Whiffin, in a querulous tone,
arching his eyebrows in surprise.

“Only that I’d like to have the job myself, sir.”

The manager looked at the stout boy as though he had never heard
anything quite so strange in all his life.

“What?” he snarled. “You--you--get out; go away from here a thousand
miles!”

“Give ’im a chanc’t, Mr. Whiffin,” pleaded Joe. “Maybe he kin make good.”

“Make good, nothin’!” growled the other. “There ain’t anything to
prewent your goin’.”

“Only a powerful disinclination to drag myself away from Spudger’s
Peerless Circus and Menagerie,” laughed Dave. “Come now, Mr.
Whiffin”--he changed his jocular tone to one of seriousness--“I know
that a barker is absolutely necessary to the success of your show. As
Joe says, give me a chance.”

Mr. Peter Whiffin seemed to hesitate. He looked sharply at the boy;
then, reaching a sudden decision, crooked his forefinger and turned on
his heel.

Dave, with Joe not far behind him, followed the manager into the
menagerie tent.

A really delightful odor of sawdust filled the air. Colossus, Titan and
Nero stood in a corner, restlessly swinging their trunks, while in the
open dens lined up on either side savage animals paced ceaselessly to
and fro.

“Now see here,” began Peter Whiffin, cocking his head to one side
and looking very fierce indeed, “I wouldn’t listen to yer yawp for
eight seconds but for two things: first, you’ve got the biggest nerve
of any boy I ever see; an’ second, I do need a barker. But I’m from
Missouri--if yer know what that means.”

“Want to be shown, eh?” laughed Dave.

He stepped off a few paces, and, with a wink at Joe, began a steady
flow of eloquence, describing Spudger’s great show in the highly
imaginative language of a press agent.

“I’ve heard worse,” commented Peter Whiffin, grudgingly, attempting to
hide his satisfaction. “Give us another round.”

An expression of surprise on the manager’s face gradually deepened.
Dave, thoroughly imbued with the humorous side of the proceeding, and
determined to do himself credit, had managed to cast aside all feelings
of embarrassment. He raised his voice until its strong, clear notes
fairly rang through the tent.

“But did ye ever speak before a mob?”

“I’ve recited in school many times,” answered Dave.

“Well, this job ain’t like speakin’ to a lot o’ kids, mind yer,” warned
Mr. Whiffin. “I reckon you’ll feel like takin’ to the tall timber when
ye faces a real crowd.”

“I’ll risk it,” said Dave, in a confident manner.

“An’ I’m game enough to take a chance on ye.” Peter Whiffin cast
an angry look toward Joe Rodgers, whose joy at the decision seemed
altogether out of proportion to its importance. “Ye kin try it this
afternoon. But ye’ll need to git the biggest kind o’ a hustle on ye;
the show’s goin’ to start mighty soon.”

“All right, Mr. Whiffin. What’s the pay?”

“For this afternoon an’ to-night two dollars an’ grub, in case ye make
good.”

Whiffin led the way to the entrance, and, as they walked outside,
Dave’s eyes ran over the lot. A large number of grown people, as well
as children were headed toward it. He saw that haste was, indeed,
necessary.

“I’ll skip over to the mess tent now,” he said, briskly, “and----”

“What! Ye ain’t had no grub yit?” exclaimed Mr. Peter Whiffin, in
astonishment.

“No! But----”

“Well, don’t waste your time in jawin’. Take ’im over, you Joe. Then
git right back on the job, or you’ll hear somethin’ ye don’t like.
Report to me in fifteen minutes, young feller.”

“That’s Whiffin,” growled Joe, as the two promptly walked away. “Him
an’ me don’t hit it nohow. Say, Jumbo--I mean Dave--you’ve got nerve,
all right. If ye kin chuck the talk to the crowd as well as ye did
afore Whiffin you’ll have Jack Gray a-guessin’.”

The mess tent was almost deserted when Dave, escorted by Joe Rodgers,
to the amazement of several waiters, a clown, and a few members of the
“Celebrated Randolpho family,” wizards of the flying trapeze, walked up
to a table and sat down.

“What ees this?” murmured Randolpho, Senior, who, however, was no
relation to the other “Randolphos.” “Aha, it ees the same fat boy I
have see here before.”

Joe Rodgers immediately made Mr. Whiffin’s orders known to those in
charge, and in a few minutes the historian was served by a grinning
and much mystified waiter.

It is very likely that Victor Collins’ fastidious tastes would have
caused him to sniff at the circus fare, but Dave had roughed it too
long in the open to be over-particular. So he began to eat with a
heartiness that increased the grin on the waiter’s face.

“Ah,” murmured Dave, a short time later, “depending upon one’s self is
the real thing, after all.”




CHAPTER XII

THE NEW BARKER


“Yes, monsieur, I have, what you call it, voyaged much.” Randolpho,
Senior, whose curiosity was too strong for him to resist, had taken a
place by Dave Brandon’s side. “You have of the Cirque d’Hiver in Paree
heard, no doubt, monsieur?”

Dave nodded. “Winter Circus, we say in English,” he replied.

“Yes. I have performed there before crowds enormous.”

“Do you like this country?” asked Dave.

Monsieur Randolpho’s agreeable voice was silent as he pondered over the
question. Presently he said:

“Ah, it ees a great place--such wonderful peoples. Nozzing for them is
too hard. You have never bark before, and yet--ah, you go?”

Dave had hastily arisen.

“I’d like to continue the conversation, Monsieur Randolpho,” he
remarked, pleasantly, “but I haven’t an instant to lose.”

“Ah, you must of the show something learn, ees that not it? Well, I
wish you a grand success.”

As Dave started off in search of Mr. Whiffin a rather curious sensation
began stealing over him. The lot had assumed an appearance of life and
gaiety such as it had perhaps never known before in all its existence.
The insistent cries of peanut, pretzel and lemonade venders, the shrill
yells of children, the rough voices of men calling to one another
and the awesome snarls and growls which occasionally came from the
menagerie tent kept up a never-ceasing din.

And but a short time before Dave had been merely an outsider; but
now--that meal sealed the contract--he was to be until night a part
and parcel of “Spudger’s Peerless” and something destined to belong to
the public gaze. The barker’s stand before the main entrance seemed
to assume an importance altogether unwarranted by either its size or
gaudily decorated surface.

One quick glance disclosed Mr. Whiffin not far away, gesticulating,
his thin, harsh voice raised to a pitch of unpleasant shrillness.

“Hey, you,” he yelled, on catching sight of Dave, “step a step this
way. I’m a-waitin’.”

As the newly-engaged barker approached, he saw a much-bewhiskered
gentleman, florid of complexion, apparently short of breath, and very
wide of girth sticking close to the manager’s side.

“Here’s the fellow, Mr. Spudger,” exclaimed Peter Whiffin, pointing a
bony forefinger toward the oncoming Dave. “Says he kin help us out, but
I ain’t bankin’ on it.”

The “great and only” Ollie Spudger unbent his ponderous form and began
to examine Dave as a connoisseur might search for the good points of a
rare piece of statuary.

“Him?--He don’t look the part to me, Whiffin,” he said, with refreshing
candor.

“His loss if he ain’t there with the goods,” commented Peter, shortly.
“Listen, young feller; here’s what I want ye to git over to the
audience, an’ git it over strong, mind ye.”

Talking rapidly, he checked off on his fingers point after point, while
Mr. Spudger nodded his head in unison with the motions.

“I understand,” said Dave. His eyes traveled mechanically in the
direction of the stand. “Shall I begin now?”

“No! Come this way.”

The historian followed the circus men inside the menagerie tent, where
he discovered that a space between two cages had been inclosed by a
long strip of canvas.

Whiffin drew aside the flap and bade him enter.

Dave’s eyes immediately took in a pile of garments resting on a stool.

Peter Whiffin selected a very red coat, plentifully supplied with
spangles, and, as he held it at arm’s length, the slightest movement
sent them shaking and glittering in the dull gray light which came from
above.

“A fine piece of goods,” said Mr. Whiffin, admiringly. “Slide inside,
young feller.”

“What!” gasped Dave.

“Put it on,” ordered Whiffin, peremptorily.

The stout boy, with a broad grin, took off his coat and made an effort
to follow instructions. It required the services of both Spudger and
Whiffin, however, to force the garment around his ample shoulders, and
during this operation every seam, in turn, seemed ready to burst in
angry protest.

“Now ye look a bit better,” exclaimed Mr. Spudger, at length, as,
somewhat winded with his exertions, he stood off to stare at Dave with
an eye of approval.

“Stick this top-piece on yer, young feller,” came from Peter Whiffin.

He handed over a little red cap with still redder tassels on the sides.

“I certainly got myself into something when I took this job,” laughed
Dave, carefully adjusting the head-gear. “What else do I have to
change, Mr. Whiffin?”

“Your expression--that’s all,” growled Peter. “I’m goin’. Jist wait
around the tent somewheres until the ‘Ten Thousand Dollar’ band reels
off a few tunes; an’ when I flash the signal git your nerves together
an’ come.”

“An’ don’t let any bunch o’ kids rattle you,” advised Mr. Spudger,
following his manager with ponderous steps.

Left alone, Dave paid no attention to the men passing to and fro,
but set his thoughts busily to work on the composition of his
announcement. Then, suddenly, noticing a small, round hole in the
canvas he walked quickly toward it. In another moment his eye was
applied to the aperture.

He could see a considerable number of people crowding before the
entrance and also “Spudger’s Ten Thousand Dollar Peerless Band”
occupying a raised platform near the barker’s seat.

Even quiet, self-contained Dave felt his nerves tingling curiously. The
ordeal of waiting tried his patience. He felt that his throat, for some
reason or other, was becoming unpleasantly husky.

And now, after much preliminary tooting, the band struck up. A grand
crash was followed by several resounding bangs; then the musicians
were safely off. The brass easily predominated, almost drowning the
well-meaning attempts of the others.

“When we started on that motor car trip how little I ever expected to
run into anything like this,” murmured Dave, softly. “I certainly do
wonder where those boys could have gone.”

“Hey there!”

He recognized the rasping voice.

“All right, sir.”

The great moment had arrived.

A strong effort stilled the quick beating of his heart. Walking with a
firm step he reached Mr. Whiffin’s side.

“Up with ye! An’ chuck it over strong, now!” commanded the manager.

The chilly wind blowing hard across the lots swayed the great canvas
paintings before the entrance and violently fluttered a multitude of
flags and pennants floating from the top of ridge poles and strung
along various ropes.

Even above the vigorous strains of music, Dave could hear a curious
murmur run through the crowd as he stepped upon the stand. In an
instant every eye was apparently focused upon him. He found it rather
difficult to face unconcernedly that battery of looks expressive of
curiosity, anticipation, or, perhaps, dreadful to think of, derision.

Almost mechanically the new barker observed the shifting currents of
humanity, one moment massed together, and the next flowing over the lot
to form in scattered groups before various points of interest. It was
very picturesque and interesting. Many girls, in their bright-colored
dresses, added a touch of color to the scene.

Dave became so absorbed in contemplating the kaleidoscopic effects
that he almost forgot to feel embarrassed. But a shrill screech coming
from a youthful throat just below brought him abruptly back to the
prominence of his position.

“Say somethin’ or git the hook!”

And just then Mr. Ollie Spudger, by a wave of his big right hand,
signaled to the fiddling leader of the “Ten Thousand Dollar” band.

With another terrifying crash and bang, the playing suddenly stopped. A
stillness, appalling by contrast, immediately seemed to hover over the
surroundings. Dave, momentarily off his guard, found his wits acting in
a way that wits sometimes do when called upon to perform their duties
under extraordinary conditions. Words which just a few seconds before
were clearly imprinted on his mental vision had completely vanished,
and he stood gazing awkwardly into the faces of a staring, noisy mob.

Below and at his back, he was conscious of the presence of Mr. Spudger
and his manager, realizing, too, that the eyes of each were fastened
upon him with eager intensity.

That instant of silence was unendurable. But a noise producer was at
hand. A large disc of metal hung between two supports on his right,
while a wooden mallet lay on a shelf close by.

Dave got into action.

Bang, bang! A series of deafening crashes, rivaling in volume those
produced by the brass in the “Ten Thousand,” immediately swung off
into space. Again and again the clanging notes swelled into a din of
uproarious proportions.

Every straggler, apparently, within hearing distance came rushing up,
until a dense crowd had massed itself before him.

Dave was once more in full control of his faculties. Words began
popping into his head in such generous numbers that before the notes of
the gong had ceased their musical reverberations he was addressing his
audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, in a clear, resonant voice, “it is
my pleasure and privilege to call your attention to the great and
mar-velous features of Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless Circus and
Menagerie. We have here to-day a stupendous and superb ag-gre-gation of
wonders collected from all quarters of the globe by Mr. Ollie Spudger.
The expense was e-normous.

“At each and every performance there is to be seen a grand exhibition
of a-renic pomp and splendor, together with visions of inspiring
beauty. Golden chariots drawn by huge African elephants form part
of a glittering, jeweled and costumed army rivaling those gorgeous
pro-cessions which, centuries ago, filed with majestic pomp before the
emperors in the Coliseum of ancient Rome.”

“Bully for you! That’s going some!” screeched the voice of “Mister” Joe
Rodgers from the front row.

Dave hit the gong a resounding crack.

“I call attention to Ormond de Sylveste!” he cried, “the champion
bareback rider of the world, in his thrilling exhibition of equestrian
skill; to Tobanus, the renowned sword swallower, in a mysterious and
a-mazing act. And besides these two un-equaled stars there is the
Randolpho troupe of acrobats, who, in an as-ton-ishing series of
gyrations, set at defiance all laws of gravitation.”

Dave paused impressively, letting his pointer come to rest on the broad
chest of Adolphus’ counterfeit presentment.

“Then there are other attractions alone worth double the price of
admission. This most ex-tra-ordinary giant, Adolphus, is a youth, still
growing, and promising to eclipse in height all giants of any era.
Zingar, the famous dwarf, has caused the greatest sensation wherever
shown. Mr. Ollie Spudger’s standing offer of ten thousand dollars for
his equal in any country has never been taken up.”

A buzz of comments arose. Dave waited for a few moments, then resumed:

“The menagerie is an exhibition in itself--a great collection of
savage, fear-in-spir-ing animals, in gilded lairs, bringing to
your very doors the inhabitants of the jungle--an ag-gre-gation of
fe-rocious quadrupeds without parallel in the country.

“And all this can be seen for the small sum of ten cents, just one
dime, an amount well within the means of every man, woman or child
of Kenosha. Remember--ten cents--just one dime, to see all the
curiosities. Reserved seats up to twenty-five cents. Pass along--get
your tickets--get your tickets!”

Dave vigorously hammered the gong. Then the “Ten Thousand Dollars,”
obeying another signal from Mr. Spudger, sent up a blast that
threatened the safety of ear-drums.

Joe Rodgers, with a shrill “Gee, this must be a bully show, fellers!”
flung over his shoulder, made a dive for the ticket wagon, followed by
several young men whom Dave had noticed about the circus.

As though they possessed some strange magnetic force, many spectators
seemed to be drawn irresistibly after them. The tent soon began
swallowing up a steady flow of humanity, and when interest waned Dave
promptly resumed his speaking.

He rose to greater heights this time, his clear, strong voice
compelling attention. He told of the wonderful performing elephants;
of Mademoiselle Hazel, queen of the slack wire, in her great
danger-defying act, and of Professor Lopus and his extraordinary troupe
of trained horses.

Joe and his associates were on hand, and, as before, at the important
moment, started a stampede toward the “box office.”

Another repetition of the performance left standing at the entrance
only a few disconsolate-looking people. Even Mr. Peter Whiffin could
not altogether conceal his satisfaction at the success of Spudger’s new
barker.




CHAPTER XIII

UNDER THE BIG TOP


“What’s that you say--a note for me?” queried Victor Collins.

“Yes, sir.” The dapper hotel clerk laid a rather undue emphasis on the
word “Sir.”--“Here it is.”

Victor took the envelope, studied the inscription, then held it up to
the light, and, as all these proceedings gave him no clue as to the
contents, he presently tore it open.

“I wonder what this means,” he murmured. “Gee; the big boob!” he
exclaimed, half-aloud, an instant later. “Now what do you know about
that?”

“No bad news, I hope?” ventured the inquisitive clerk.

“Nothing that will get in the papers, I guess,” growled Victor, as he
began to read these lines a second time:

  “DEAR VIC:--

  “Desperate cases require desperate remedies. The absent food
  treatment does not suit my particular constitution. Really, I feel
  hungry enough to eat brass tacks.

  “My adventurous career seems to be not yet over, so you will find me
  at ‘Spudger’s Peerless.’ Our stay in Kenosha is likely to be a good
  thing for the paper industry after all.

                                                     “Your friend,
                                                               “DAVE B.”

“Well, now, I’d like to know why in thunder he’s gone to the circus.”

The frown on Victor’s face deepened. With a curt nod to the clerk he
walked outside.

“By George, it wasn’t much advantage to me when Blakelets steered this
bunch of great depending-upon-themselves fellows up to our front door,”
he thought, almost savagely. “Wish he hadn’t stopped until they were a
thousand miles away. Everything has gone wrong; dandy motor boat trip
knocked in the head, and here I am---- Oh, gee, but it does make me
tired.”

Then Victor stopped short, struck by a sudden idea which made his eyes
fairly flash.

“I do wonder, now, if this scrawl and all that howl about being broke
is just a big, silly bluff. Maybe the Indian is taking in the show and
expects me to come chasing over after him. Well, I simply won’t do
it--that’s all.”

Victor’s jaws snapped together. Within a few minutes his mind was made
up.

“I’ll skip over to Uncle Ralph’s,” he muttered. “Maybe Phil Malone is
there.”

Captain Bunderley, being a bachelor, employed Phil as housekeeper and
general utility man.

In half an hour Victor reached his uncle’s residence, which stood back
on a wide avenue. A graveled path led across a fine lawn. Tastefully
arranged flower beds and little cedars planted here and there gave
quite an air of elegance to the surroundings. Over the pillared
porch clinging vines swayed in the wind, the green leaves thickly
interspersed with those of a golden and ruddy hue.

One glance at the tightly closed mansion was enough to convince Victor
that his trouble had been for nothing. An air of melancholy silence
seemed to brood over the place. Dry autumn leaves bestrewed the porch
and steps, every now and then apparently becoming endowed with life as
they rustled away for a few feet.

Impatiently Victor bounded up the steps.

“I’ll ring, anyway,” he said to himself.

As the lad expected, there was no response.

“Nothing doing,” he growled. “Hasn’t this been a real peach of a day!
But I’m not done with the Rambler Club yet.”

Victor didn’t enjoy himself during the rest of the afternoon. He
visited the wharf again, only to find the “Fearless” still missing, and
finally, tired and disgusted, wandered off to the public library.

The afternoon waned; then night threw a mantle of blackness over the
city. After supper at a convenient restaurant, he decided to take a
flying look at “Spudger’s Peerless,” then return to the hotel.

A bleak wind continually moaned and howled, seizing upon the telegraph
wires as an instrument to send forth musical chords. Many of the
streets were lonely and frigidly silent. Victor, not accustomed to
being out at night, passed shadowy, mysterious-looking corners with
a touch of fear tugging at his heart. He was glad indeed to see a
fantastic array of lights coming into view and the circus tents faintly
luminous against the sky.

At length he found himself among the throngs crowding toward the
barker’s stand. And once there the lawyer’s son received the surprise
of his life. It was difficult to credit either his eyes or ears.

He stopped short, to stare in utter bewilderment at a familiar face and
form.

“Why--why, it’s Brownie--Brownie--sure as I live!” he gasped. “Well, by
George!”

No words could quite express Victor Collins’ astonishment. He felt,
too, a pang of disappointment in the realization that his plan for
humbling Dave had so completely failed. He edged his way further
forward, listening eagerly to every word of the barker’s stirring
appeal.

Victor had never thought that in one person could two such different
manners exist. It was no longer the easy-going, indolent Dave he saw
before him, but a bold, fearless lad who always had a ready retort on
his tongue for any quip hurled at him from the audience.

A different feeling regarding the “Big Indian” came into Victor’s brain
in spite of the fact that it wasn’t entirely welcome; he saw Dave in
an entirely new light. It made him think.

There was too much going on all around, however, for his present
train of thought to keep long on the track. The gasoline torches of
the barker’s stand and the lights from various booths devoted to the
purpose of supplying the multitude with food and drink threw a strange,
fitful glare over the ever-moving crowds.

“Get your hot frankfurters! Peanuts, pretzels and lemonade!” rose
crisply above the babel of sounds.

Amid the general noise and confusion, Victor began to lose sight of his
grievances.

As Dave finished his “oration,” seized the mallet and hammered lustily
on the gong, Victor felt his heart responding so strongly to its wild,
clanging notes that the tide moving toward the ticket wagon carried him
along, a willing victim.

“Hello, Brandon; hello!” he cried, eagerly. He felt even a touch of
pride in knowing so prominent a personage. “I say, Brandon----”

“Have the correct change, gentlemen! Have the correct change!”

The brusk voice of the ticket seller broke in upon his sentence.

Victor, feeling himself being elbowed and jostled aside, scarcely heard
the barker’s hearty greeting. Next instant a ticket was in his hand,
and the next after that found him passing the portal of “Spudger’s.”

The sight of gilded cages with wild animals behind the iron bars, of
three huge elephants swaying their unwieldy bodies and trunks, of flags
and bunting and numerous other things apparently inseparable from
circus life made the frowning lines on Victor’s face entirely disappear.

“Well, I’ll see the show anyway,” he murmured. “Gee, won’t it be a
regular lark!”

Going from cage to cage he kicked up the sawdust in pure delight.
Spudger’s collection of zoological specimens contained a lion,
two tigers, a jaguar, three pumas, a brown bear and two coyotes.
Occasionally a sullen roar or an angry snarl seemed to indicate that
several members of the animal kingdom were in a very uncomfortable
state of mind.

The tent was rapidly filling up, but Victor, having a reserved seat
coupon, did not hurry.

“Hello, Buster!”

He turned quickly, to gaze into the grinning face of “Mister” Joe
Rodgers.

Joe looked a bit more respectable than he had during the morning hours,
but not enough so to make the lawyer’s son feel any great desire to
continue his acquaintance.

“Well?” he said, coldly.

“Say, kid, where did you drop from?” Then, without waiting for a
response, he added, “Ain’t that big jumbo a corker--ain’t he though?
Whiffin had orter be pleased. Say, that there feller knows every word
in the lingo, don’t he?”

To be addressed in such a way by a mere water-carrier, especially
before so many people, made Victor feel highly disgusted. With a curt
nod, he turned away, and just on the instant Joe bawled out loudly:

“Hey, Dave--hey! Here’s yer little Buster, right here.”

Victor, intensely indignant, saw the stout boy, who now wore his own
coat, attracted by the hail and edging his way through the crowd toward
them. Dave’s face was beaming.

“Mighty glad to see you, Vic,” he exclaimed, heartily. He held out his
hand. “Can’t stay but a minute; I’m due on the stand again. Surprised,
Vic? What did you say, Joe? A bully spiel?--thanks!--Sir?”

This last word was spoken to a thin, melancholy-looking person who had
just stepped up by the group.

“My hand, sir! Upon my word, I have yet to hear the eq’al o’ what you
done in the barkin’ line to-day,” said the man, in a deep-throated
voice. “My hand, sir!”

Dave took it.

“Yes, sir; it’s as far ahead of most of ’em as my act eclipses all the
rest.”

“So you take some part in the show, eh?” remarked Dave, with interest.
“What’s your specialty?”

The other’s sad visage brightened.

“Spudger’s wouldn’t be much without me,” he confided. “I’m Ormond de
Sylveste.”

“Goodness--Ormond de Sylveste?” piped Victor.

“Yes, sir! An’ if anybody kin beat me a-ridin’ I ain’t never seen
’em--fact. Whiffin knows how waluable I am to the show. Why, I’ve had
’im so skeered thinkin’ I was about to leave that he----”

“Hey there, Bill Potts, what’s the matter with ye?” Peter Whiffin,
unobserved by any of the three, had approached, his face lined with an
astonishing number of wrinkles. “If yer don’t git right out o’ this
here tent an’ stay out, Bill Potts, I’ll dock yer for double the time.”

All this was spoken in a low tone; but it proved sufficiently strong to
induce Monsieur Ormond de Sylveste, otherwise known as Bill Potts, to
leave the spot in undignified haste.

“An’ it’s time for you to climb up ag’in,” added Mr. Whiffin to Dave.
“An’, as for you, ye lazy, good-for-nuthin’ scamp”--he faced Joe
Rodgers--“beat it! Ye’d have Spudger’s a-supportin’ ye in idleness, I
reckon.”

With a grumble of disapprobation, Joe obeyed, while Dave, who was also
about to leave, stopped, as Mr. Whiffin again spoke up:

“See here, young feller”--the manager put on his most pleasant
expression--“ye ain’t done so bad. Here’s your money and a couple o’
good reserved seats besides.”

“Thank you,” said Dave, politely.

“Jack Gray ain’t got over his cold yit. I think you’ll have to go along
with the show to-night.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Dave, a bit startled at the prospect.

“Yes. Why not? You was broke, an’ I helped ye out; don’t deny it now.”

“I wouldn’t attempt to do so, Mr. Whiffin.”

“You kin do me a good turn, this time. We’re bound for Racine.”

Dave looked at Victor. He felt the responsibility for his welfare which
had been thrust upon his shoulders.

“I can’t leave my friend, Mr. Whiffin,” he said, slowly.

“Let ’im come along.”

“That’s the scheme,” cried Victor, quite delighted. “Sure thing,
Brandon.” The idea of his actually traveling with a circus took his
fancy by storm. “Say yes, you big Indian.”

“I knew you’d be reasonable,” exclaimed Whiffin. “Then it’s all
settled?”

“If Victor agrees, I suppose so,” answered Dave. “You’re sure now, Vic?”

“Of course I am.”

“Good!” The manager even smiled. “How much did you pay for your ticket,
young feller?”

“A quarter,” answered Victor.

“Here it is.” A coin was thrust into his hand. Then Mr. Peter Whiffin
exclaimed, briefly, to Dave: “Hustle back to your job now. I’ll see ye
later.” And he was off.

Victor had been primed with numerous questions to hurl at the Rambler
but was forced to wait until Dave reappeared, fifteen minutes later,
this time in his street clothes.

“I needn’t talk any more now,” he explained. “Mr. Spudger says there
are as many people inside the tent as the law allows.”

Victor soon learned all he wished to know. Unconsciously, his manner
toward Dave had undergone a decided change. A boy who could calmly
face an audience the way the “Big Indian” had done was worthy of a
certain respect. An idea--but a very vague idea, it is true--of his
own limitations, of his own shortcomings, for the first time, perhaps,
stole into his head.

In a small tent adjoining the menagerie the two found that Adolphus
and Zingar were the principal attractions. They had scarcely entered
when the youthful giant recognized them, and, disregarding all rules of
professional ethics, called loudly for both to come over.

“Little Georgy” was arrayed in a gorgeous military uniform of no known
epoch, plentifully besprinkled with gilt braid and big shiny buttons.
A sword dangled from his side, while a hat suggestive of Napoleon’s
famous head-gear was perched on his head.

“Goodness! I’m glad to see you again,” warbled the giant, in
his childish treble. “Smitty says--er--er--I mean Zingar says
Potts--er--er--I mean Ormond told him you’d made a big hit. Ouch--look
out!”

An inquisitive urchin, having decided in his own mind that Adolphus
was perched upon wooden supports, had boldly, but without malice,
deliberately kicked him on the shins.

“S’cuse me, feller,” he said, apologetically. “It’s all you, ain’t it?
My, oh my, what a whopper! Don’t I wisht I was you.”

“It’s all in the point of view,” laughed Dave. “We’ll see you after the
show, George. Mr. Whiffin’s close about, you know. He might be kind of
peevish if he saw us talking together. How are you, Zingar?”

The dwarf stood a trifle over three feet in height, and his diminutive
person was also arrayed in gorgeous attire. A little round bullet head,
with gray, whimsical eyes and a laughing mouth gave him the jolliest
appearance of anybody connected with the Peerless show. He made a
peculiar little curtsey to the boys, but, being a real professional
curio of many years’ experience, did not condescend to speak.

The two soon followed the crowd into the main tent, which presented a
gala appearance. Every available seat seemed to be taken and at every
point of vantage a few late arrivals were standing.

The members of the “Ten Thousand Dollar” now filed into their places,
and a few preliminary notes mingled in with all those peculiar sounds
which seem inseparable from a great gathering--the swelling murmur of
many voices, the shrill screech of some bold urchin and the monotonous
chant of the peanut and pretzel seller.

By the time the band struck up the two had taken their seats.

After three selections had been played the crowd began to grow restive.
A scattered stamping of feet soon grew into a dull, steady roar, until
the bravest efforts of the “Ten Thousand” were drowned in the sea of
sound.

Suddenly the clanging note of a gong was heard. A “grand triumphal and
gorgeous spectacle of oriental and barbaric splendor” was about to make
its entry. Gilded Roman chariots drawn by “fiery” steeds three abreast,
followed by Colossus, Titan and Nero, each pulling a golden car and led
by gentlemen whose skin was nicely stained came first. Next were men
in armor carrying huge shields and spears, and over all lights flashed
with bewildering effect.

The great Ollie Spudger himself, astride a coal black horse, and
escorted by a cavalcade of Arabs and Japanese--at least, they bore a
resemblance to Arabs and Japanese--bowed with condescending grace to
the multitude.

“Great!” laughed Victor, gleefully.

Act followed act. In the small sawdust circle the celebrated Randolpho
troupe of acrobats, as well as jugglers and clowns did their best to
amuse; and frequent manifestations of approval came to encourage their
efforts.

“Say, just listen to that!” cried Victor, suddenly holding up his hand.

A dull moaning roar was sounding outside, and during the lulls they
could hear a patter of rain beating against the canvas. A chilly wind
took advantage of every opening, while the dingy canvas sides swayed
back and forth in the gusts.

“The storm has broken at last,” said Dave.

“Gee!” grunted Victor. He raised his coat collar. “I guess we’re in for
a good soaking, Brandon.”

“By the time the show lets out it may have lessened a bit,” returned
Dave, encouragingly. “Ah ha; there is our friend, at last.”

“Hello--Bill Potts!” quoth Victor.

“Hush, lad, hush,” laughed Dave. “Ormond de Sylveste, you mean.”

Standing gracefully upon the back of a white horse, the chief
equestrian of Spudger’s rode impressively into the ring. He bore no
more resemblance to the melancholy-looking Bill Potts of the earlier
hours than did the bright, glistening spangles and other embellishments
of his costume to his old, discarded clothes. Bill Potts--temporarily,
at least--existed no more; Ormond de Sylveste now reigned in his stead.

Crack! Crack! The sound of the ringmaster’s whip, rising sharply above
the roar of the storm, sent the white horse into a swift gallop around
the ring. Faster--still faster, but never too fast for the intrepid
Ormond, pounded the flying hoofs. Gracefully he poised on one foot;
with easy skill he crashed through paper-covered hoops held up by a
powdered and painted clown, then turned wonderful somersaults, never
missing his footing on the back of the flying steed.

Every known variety of sound which small boys can produce greeted
Ormond de Sylveste as he dismounted, and, with the grace of a dancing
master, bowed his thanks.

Other performers appeared and went through their turns. Mr. Ollie
Spudger made a speech, and when the show finally ended apparently every
one was satisfied with the grand display made by the Peerless.

The spectators had scarcely risen to their feet when the dismantling of
the seats began. The blows of hammers, the sound of heavy planks being
taken up and piled one upon another, the sharp commands combined with
the storm to produce a din and confusion which made only the youthful
care to linger.

“Guess they’re going to get ahead of the wind and pull the old canvas
down over our ears,” said Victor. “Great Scott! Say----”

“What’s the matter?” asked Dave.

“Don’t you see? Why, the menagerie tent is gone.”

“So it is.”

The brightly-lighted tent which had contained the animals was no longer
visible through the exit, its place being taken by a square of darkened
sky.

The two hurried forward and found, to their great satisfaction, that
the rain had almost ceased.

“Doesn’t it look odd?” said Victor, glancing around, and kicking up the
sawdust with his foot.

“They made a mighty quick get-away,” commented Dave. “A busy scene out
there, Vic.”

By the brilliant glare of a calcium light they could see that teams
of horses had been hitched to the great wagons. Several were already
started on their difficult journey over the muddy field.

“Who’s this coming?” exclaimed Victor, at length.

A figure, sometimes silhouetted sharply against the lights, then almost
lost in shadow, was approaching on a run.

“Hello, Jumbo--I mean Dave,” yelled a lusty voice. “Where are ye?
Hello!”

“Right over here, Joe,” called the historian.

“Bully! Whiffin says you an’ Buster are to go along o’ me, an’ the
team’s a’ready.”




CHAPTER XIV

THE WHALEBACK


Captain Ralph Bunderley was, frankly, glad to see the visitors again.

“Come right on board, lads,” he called from his position on the deck.
“Where is Victor? Gone off on a jaunt with that stout boy, eh? Oh,
well, it’s all right. He has lots of time to enjoy himself before we
leave.”

Uncle Ralph had a great deal to talk about. His exciting sea tales
found attentive listeners, and the captain seemed equally interested in
hearing about some of the adventures of the Rambler Club.

“Sorry I can’t tell you a thriller with a trip on a motor yacht as the
subject,” laughed Bob.

For an instant Uncle Ralph made no reply. Then he said, slowly:

“Come down in the cabin, boys. I have a few things you may enjoy
looking over.”

On reaching the saloon the captain walked to a bookcase, opened it and
brought out a large album.

“My own snap-shots,” he explained, with a touch of pride.

“Some dandy views here,” said Bob, turning the leaves. “What! Are you
going to leave us already, captain?”

“Just a few minutes, Bob. When you get through you’ll find another
volume on the shelf.”

Bob and Charlie soon became so deeply absorbed in their pleasant task
of following the captain on some of his foreign voyages by the aid of
pictures that various sounds of activity in the engine room, besides
numerous noises on deck, failed to make more than a vague impression on
their minds.

The sudden starting of a gasoline motor, together with an unmistakable
gliding movement on the part of the “Fearless,” however, caused both to
look up with exclamations of surprise.

“Great Scott!” cried Bob.

“Oh, sugar!” exclaimed Charlie, nervously. “What on earth does this
mean, I wonder?”

“That we’re leaving it yards behind us, I suppose,” chuckled Bob.
“Hello, captain; giving us a surprise, eh?”

Uncle Ralph was coming down the companionway.

“I thought you boys might like to see a motor yacht in action,” he
laughed. “Bob, in your future accounts of adventures, you may add a
description of a short trip on Lake Michigan.”

“On Lake Michigan?” gasped Charlie.

His face flushed slightly. Naturally he did not wish to be thought
lacking in courage, but the prospect certainly failed to arouse his
enthusiasm.

“That’ll be perfectly great!” cried Bob. “Thanks, captain. We’ll enjoy
it immensely.”

“How about the time, though?” asked Blake, rather weakly.

“Don’t worry about that,” answered Uncle Ralph, “but come up on deck.”

As they sat beneath the awning a constantly changing scene of
factories, of various craft, and those picturesque jumbles of buildings
which are so often seen along water-fronts, passed before their eyes.

While the “Fearless” cut swiftly through the gray, choppy water,
churning it into creamy foam, and the wind tore past in heavy gusts
Blake’s peace of mind didn’t improve. Presently he rose to his feet.

“Guess I’ll stroll around a bit,” he remarked.

“All right, Charlie,” said Bob.

The senior at the Kingswood High soon observed Phil Malone
industriously polishing a brass rail at the bow. Phil’s manner as he
approached strongly suggested that of a hare taken by surprise.

“Hello, Phil!” greeted Charlie, pleasantly.

The “first mate,” without stopping work, grunted a monosyllable in
reply.

“How’s the world treating you?”

Phil’s views on the subject seemed to be rather indefinite. Blake
understood, however, that he had no general complaint to make.

“Say, Phil, we’re bound for the lake. Rather dangerous out there at
times, I suppose?”

Charlie tried to speak in a very careless tone indeed.

“Yep--awful,” answered Phil, not very reassuringly, as he kept on
polishing.

“But, of course, in weather like this it’s all safe enough, eh?”

“A feller ain’t never safe on the water,” commented Phil, with amazing
volubility, for him.

“I suppose you have plenty of life preservers on board?” said Charlie,
with a forced grin.

Phil thought they had.

“Well, I hope we shan’t need ’em.”

“Can’t never tell,” mumbled the “first mate,” giving an obstinate place
on the brass an extra hard rub.

“Ever been in any tight fixes, Phil?”

“Sure.”

“Where?”

“On the lake.”

“In what boat?”

“This un.”

The conversation was not taking the cheery turn for which Charlie had
hoped.

“I guess I’ll get back, Phil,” he remarked, turning away.

“Not the slightest objection,” came from Phil.

In fifteen minutes the “Fearless” was racing through the turbulent
water of the lake. Battery after battery of surging waves swept
against the hull, often sending showers of shining drops spattering
over the deck.

Gripped by the full force of wind and wave the motor yacht began to
careen. Each instant Charlie Blake could see the city of Kenosha
becoming more and more obscured behind the dull gray atmosphere.

“I call this perfectly stunning--one of the greatest of sports!” cried
Bob.

“Certainly wish I was out of it,” murmured Charlie, steadying himself
by the rail.

“We’ll soon leave that schooner yonder far astern, Bob,” he heard
Captain Bunderley say.

Bob Somers raised a pair of marine glasses, which the skipper
handed him, to his eyes. The vessel was apparently swept across the
intervening space with lightning speed. He saw her spread of canvas
bellying out in the wind, dingy masses of white slowly moving forth
and back against the sky. The instrument shifted from point to point
brought into view a network of rigging, spars, cabins, several sailors
lounging near the forepeak and the line of water breaking crisply
against the length of her hull.

[Illustration: “STEAMER COMING,” HE ANNOUNCED]

“She’s plowing along bravely,” said Bob, bracing himself to resist the
wind. “Hello!” Swinging the glass toward the faint line of the horizon,
he had suddenly picked out from the gloom a thin wisp of smoke.
“Steamer coming,” he announced.

“Very probably a whaleback bound for Chicago,” explained Uncle Ralph.
He smiled quizzically. “A cat may look at the king, they say, so we’ll
make an inspection of the monster at close range. Then we can race her
back to Kenosha. Is she in range yet, Bob?”

“Yes, sir; and looks like a whopper to me. I can see that the sides of
the hull are curved over at the top, which means it’s a whaleback, all
right.”

The skipper shouted several directions to the helmsman. Martin Ricks
thereupon changed the course of the “Fearless,” heading her directly
toward the steamer, now distinctly visible to the naked eye.

The long stretch of water which separated them was being cut down with
remarkable rapidity. Bob Somers, his eye to the glass, saw the three
decks of the big white steamer crowded with passengers. Moving swiftly
through the turbulent water, apparently unaffected by the continual
onslaughts of wind and waves, she presented a majestic appearance.

The powerful glass brought every detail into view with extraordinary
clearness. As Bob slowly swept the craft from stem to stern it seemed
as though she was but a few yards distant. For an instant his gaze
rested on the pilot house; then he lowered the glass, giving him the
range of the upper deck.

A man leaning over the rail near the forward end, with a megaphone in
his hand and surrounded by a group, immediately attracted Bob Somers’
attention. Their faces, sharply revealed in the circle of light, were
all turned toward the motor yacht with an interest which seemed to him
unusual.

“Looks as though the man is going to hail us,” he murmured.

He removed the glass, and, instantly, the whaleback seemed to be shot
far back on the waste of water.

When the two craft were within a short distance of each other, Captain
Bunderley, considerably surprised to notice that the steamer had
stopped her screw, gave orders to shut off power.

“The ‘Fearless’ ahoy!” yelled a voice through the megaphone.

“That’s Captain Phillips,” declared Skipper Bunderley. “A good friend
of mine, too. He wouldn’t stop out here unless he had something
important to say.” He raised his voice in a sonorous yell. “What’s
that, Phillips?”

“I want to ask if you can do me a great favor?” came from the captain
of the whaleback.




CHAPTER XV

AN UNEXPECTED VOYAGE


A few minutes later, so skilfully had Martin Ricks handled the
“Fearless” that she was bobbing up and down on the leeward side of
the monster steamer, which was still going slowly ahead under its own
momentum. Its decks, rising high above them, and suggestive of some
great building, seemed to have the singular effect of flattening the
motor yacht almost down to the water’s edge.

Hundreds of heads appeared over the rails, and the comments which ran
through the crowd sounded above the wash and swish of beating water.

“Where are you bound, Captain Bunderley?” asked the master of the
whaleback.

“We are just out on a pleasure jaunt and intend to return to Kenosha at
once!” yelled Uncle Ralph.

“Good, Bunderley! I’m going to introduce you to Judge Hampton, of
Milwaukee.”

Captain Phillips indicated a gentleman at his side.

“A well-known man, too. His term of office recently expired, but
everybody still calls him Judge,” commented the skipper, the next
instant replying in his bluff and hearty fashion.

Judge Hampton, a rather elderly man, holding his eye-glasses in one
hand and a paper in the other, looked down upon them gravely.

“Captain Bunderley,” he began, in much the same tone of voice as he
might have used in charging a jury, “a wireless message has just
reached me”--he waved the paper--“stating that my presence in Milwaukee
is needed at once. Would it be possible for you to land me in Kenosha?
The matter is of very great importance.”

“Certainly I can, Judge,” responded Uncle Ralph, politely.

“I shall be most heartily obliged to you.”

“Hey, Phil Malone!” shouted Captain Bunderley, “stand by to catch a
line.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Uncle Ralph began to issue various orders. The bell in the engine room
clanged loudly. The motor roared for an instant, then sank into a low,
droning murmur.

“Mind yourself!” yelled a voice, suddenly.

A man on the lower deck of the whaleback was making ready to cast a
rope.

On it came--a sinuous, snake-like line, hurtling straight toward
Captain Bunderley, who stood near the bow. The throw was accurate, and,
in spite of the rocking, slippery deck, the skipper managed to catch
it. In another instant Phil Malone was grasping a second rope hurled
from a point near the motor yacht’s stern.

Both lines were made fast, and the “Fearless,” struggling like some
resisting monster against the grip of a giant foe, began closing up the
gap of water which lay between it and the great white hull.

Although shielded by the towering whaleback, the yacht wobbled and
shook to such an extent that the last particle of interest on Charlie
Blake’s part vanished. Supporting himself with difficulty, he stood
watching Phil Malone and the captain hang out fenders. He heard
various shouts from both vessels, the bell in the engine room of the
“Fearless” again clanging, and the creak of straining ropes. Then
the last few feet of water was covered and the yacht sidled up to the
larger boat with a dull, jarring shock.

Presently a rope ladder dangled its length from deck to deck. Judge
Hampton trusted himself to its swaying rungs, and, with extreme care,
descended to the motor yacht.

“When I started out I didn’t expect to have the honor of welcoming a
former member of Wisconsin’s judiciary on board the ‘Fearless,’” said
Captain Bunderley, assisting his passenger to a seat.

“The honor is mine,” smiled the Judge.

The skipper and his “first mate” cast off the lines. A great churning
of water quickly followed. A hearty farewell cheer came from the
whaleback’s deck, as the two vessels swung clear, and the “Fearless”
seemed to leap away from the monster’s side.

Captain Bunderley consulted a railroad time-table.

“I suppose you are anxious to reach Milwaukee as soon as possible,
Judge?” he asked.

“I am, indeed,” affirmed the passenger.

“Well, I find that we should arrive in Kenosha too late for you to
catch the next express. That means an hour or more lost.”

“Too bad,” said the Judge.

Captain Bunderley swung around and faced Bob Somers.

“If you two chaps shouldn’t turn up at the hotel just when your chums
expect, are they the sort to raise an awful howl or sit down and
blubber?” he asked.

“Not much,” laughed Bob. “They’ll know it’s all right.”

“In that case, I’ll take you direct to Milwaukee, Judge,” announced the
skipper, suddenly, much to Charlie Blake’s astonishment and disgust.

The jurist immediately protested that he couldn’t think of such a
thing; but Uncle Ralph, with a smile, tersely ordered the yacht’s
course to be changed.

“The time means practically nothing to me, Judge, while it may be of
great advantage to you,” he said.

The “Fearless” was pitching heavily. Charlie Blake looked at the
succession of waves following each other ceaselessly across the broad
expanse, at whitecaps always forming, and at others always on the
point of dissolving themselves back into the gray, somber element. The
heaving, tumbling flood and the dark, ragged storm-clouds scudding
low, apparently dipping down at the blurred horizon line to meet the
water, made an impressive spectacle. But certain distressing symptoms
prevented Blake from thoroughly enjoying it.

He determined, however, not to let Bob Somers see how badly he was
affected. “He’ll think I’m a quitter,” he mused.

His mind fully occupied, Blake only heard the conversation going on
around him as a confused jumble of words.

“I do wonder how long it will be before we get there?” he murmured,
impatiently.

Time, to him at least, seemed to drag out interminably. But, at length,
to his great joy, Uncle Ralph spoke up.

“The lighthouse at the entrance to the harbor of Milwaukee, boys,” he
said.

“Thank goodness!” came from Charlie Blake. Then, sotto voce, he added,
“No more motor yacht motoring for me.”

The “Fearless,” apparently racing at almost the speed of a railroad
train, had brought into view what appeared to be but a small gray
vertical streak. The four watched it and a confused blur of lights and
darks on the distant shore slowly shaping themselves into definite form.

Finally, towers, domes and chimneys sprang out from the shadowy masses,
to form gray silhouettes against the sky. Before long the largest city
in Wisconsin was clearly revealed to the gaze of the interested boys.

The motor yacht soon swung abreast of the lighthouse, and, at length,
glided smoothly into the picturesque Milwaukee River, where a variety
of interesting sights began to pass in a steadily-moving procession.

A bridge opened to let them by, then another. Near the third, which
Captain Bunderley explained was the East Water Street bridge, he
pointed out a landing.

“There’s where I usually moor the ‘Fearless,’” he said.

“Why not follow your general custom now?” asked the Judge.

“For two reasons,” answered the captain: “your office is considerably
further in town, and the boys will have an opportunity to see more of
the water-front.”

“Objection sustained,” laughed Judge Hampton, “with my thanks added.”

At the Grand Avenue bridge a small steamer, coming from the opposite
direction, held the motor yacht up for a few moments.

Great warehouses, with long rows of staring windows and having only a
narrow footway between them and the water, lifted their time-stained
walls grimly against the clouds. The river, hemmed in on every hand,
assumed a peculiar appearance of narrowness, which to the boys was
heightened by contrast with the broad open lake so recently left
behind. To their right a great modern structure surmounted by a tower
was surrounded by buildings of all heights and sizes, the old and new
standing side by side. Still further beyond, another towered structure,
the city hall, rose high in the air.

“But for the character of the buildings this view might suggest a bit
of Holland,” remarked Captain Bunderley.

Other bridges were passed. Finally, beyond a bend in the river, the
skipper gave orders to bring the yacht up alongside a wharf. This was
done in an orderly fashion, and within a few moments she was made fast.

“We’re here, and here we stay,” said Captain Bunderley. “No East Water
Street bridge for the ‘Fearless’ to-day, boys.”

The Judge shook hands warmly with the three and gave the captain his
card.

“Don’t forget that I’m ready to return the favor at any time,” he said,
cordially. “This applies to all of you. Good-bye!”

They watched the tall, dignified Judge until his figure had disappeared
behind a building.

“Judges can be mighty nice, after all,” thought Charlie. “Still, I’d a
heap rather meet this particular one off the bench than on.”

“Now, boys,” spoke up Uncle Ralph, “a telegram must be sent to your
stout friend Brandon announcing our safe arrival. Tell Victor to take a
room at the hotel and expect me back to-morrow. Now, we’re thirty odd
miles from your motor car. Going with me in the morning, or will----”

“Not for mine,” declared the “grind,” decidedly.

“Either Dave or Tom can drive the car,” said Bob. “So we’ll let ’em
come to us.”

“Very good.”

The hotel and restaurant which Uncle Ralph generally patronized on his
visits to the city was some distance from the wharf. As no telegraph
office was passed on the way they concluded to defer sending the
missive to Dave until after their meal. And this took considerable time.

But the telegram was finally flashed over the wires with the request
that Dave should send an immediate response. Then nothing remained but
to see the sights and amuse themselves.

Captain Bunderley, after exacting a promise that they would meet him at
the hotel about six o’clock, returned to the yacht.

After they had wandered about the busy streets for some time Charlie
exclaimed:

“Now, what’s the program? My legs are beginning to put up a kick.”

“We are right close to that East Water Street bridge,” said Bob, as
he consulted a pocket map. “Looked like an interesting section to me.
Suppose we take it in?”

“One way is about as good as another, I s’pose,” replied Charlie,
wearily.

As the two came in sight of the bridge a tall, thin boy standing near a
little building at one end attracted Blake’s attention.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I never expected to see another chap in this
part of the country with a shape just like Tom’s! What’s the matter,
Bob?”

Bob Somers’ expression had undergone such a sudden and startling change
that Charlie repeated his inquiry with a rising inflection.

“Don’t you recognize him?” demanded Bob, sharply.

“Recognize who?”

“Why, Tom--our Tom Clifton, of course!”




CHAPTER XVI

TOM SCORES


“Oh, sugar! You’re dreaming. Pinch yourself,” cried Charlie Blake. “Tom
is miles from here; he’s away back in Kenosha, you silly goose.”

“He was, but he isn’t; he’s right there in front of us.”

The “grind” gazed first at the tall boy, whose back was partly turned,
then toward his friend with such an air of comical bewilderment that at
any other time Bob Somers would have burst out laughing.

“It--it--certainly does look like Tom, but--but--why, hang it all, how
can it be Tom?” he gasped.

Bob Somers smiled, and the next instant Blake heard him utter a lusty
call which strangely resembled the hoot of an owl.

It produced a most extraordinary effect on the tall lad. He swung
around as sharply as though struck by some flying object. Then Charlie
heard an answering hail of a similar character, and, at the same
moment, saw the lad start toward them on a loping trot.

“Great Scott! It is--it actually is Tom Clifton!” he cried. “Well,
well!”

On came the tall boy, while Bob Somers and his companion, perhaps more
astonished than they had ever been in all their lives, walked rapidly
to meet him.

Tom Clifton’s face, as he approached, presented a most curious study.
He made a desperate attempt to appear cool and dignified, but, in spite
of all his efforts, conflicting feelings of joy, triumph, and even
indignation persisted in finding reflection on his countenance.

“Well, Bob, I knew I’d see you!” was his exclamation, as he seized the
other’s hand. “That was a pretty slick scheme of Vic’s, but----”

“Slick scheme?” gasped Bob, while Charlie Blake’s mouth flew wide open.

“Sure thing! Oh, you needn’t try to put on any nice innocent looks.”
Tom assumed an air of pitying condescension. “I got wise to your
dodge, all right; yes siree, Bob Somers. Ha, ha! You chaps didn’t get
up quite early enough to fool little Tom.”

“Why--why--what do you mean?” cried Bob. “How in thunder did you get
here, and why?”

“Well, that’s a good one!” exclaimed Tom, indignation suddenly getting
the upper hand of his other emotions. “Say, do you chaps see anything
green in me--ah, do you now?” A scornful look flashed in his eyes.
“Little Vic’s keeping out of sight, I suppose, eh? Thinks I might hurt
him. But--but--honest, Bob, I didn’t think it of you!” he blurted out,
unable to control his feelings any longer. “Honest, I didn’t!”

“What does all this mean, Tom?” demanded Bob, sharply.

“Oh, now, cut it out, I tell you. I don’t mind a joke----”

“A joke?” broke in the highly mystified Blake.

“Yes; a joke! You understand English, I s’pose?”

“No; not this new brand of yours,” murmured Charlie.

“See here, Tom”--Bob Somers laid a hand on the other’s shoulder--“let’s
get at this thing. How did you come here?”

“In the motor car, of course.”

“And where are Dave and Victor?”

“Now look here, Bob,” cried Tom, hotly, “you and Charlie know--I don’t.
They helped you pull off this little trick and----”

“Great Cæsar! What kind of a mix-up is this?” cried Bob, a glimmer of
the true state of affairs entering his brain at last. “So you came here
alone?”

“A constable was in the car part way,” said Tom, loftily. “I let ’er
out a bit, Bob. And talk ’bout whizzing! Why, all the telegraph poles
seemed to be melted into one--honest fact, they did. Now tell me what
has become of Dave?”

“If Dave isn’t with you, he and Victor must be thirty-four miles from
here,” said Bob, calmly.

“What?” piped the tall lad, a sinking feeling suddenly gripping his
heart. Bob Somers’ expression was quite enough to convince him of his
sincerity. “Dave and Victor in Kenosha!” he added, faintly.

His thoughts ran riot for a moment. Then, after all, Victor Collins
wasn’t responsible. It really came as a stunning surprise to Tom.

“Well, Bob, the jinx has surely got us on this trip,” he exclaimed.
“Say, fellows, that was a foul tip of mine.”

Highly disgusted, Tom Clifton told the whole story, not forgetting,
even in his mental stress, to take credit for the fact that his
calculations regarding the destination of the motor yacht had proven
correct.

The “grind” was not demonstrative, as a rule, but on this occasion he
fairly roared with mirth, slapped his knees and grew so red in the face
that Tom became quite alarmed.

“Gee! Look out, Charlie,” he cautioned. “The system can stand only so
much.”

“I know; and this was just a trifle over the limit,” gurgled Blake.
“Ha, ha, Tom! You have Sherlock Holmes beaten a mile.”

Tom was highly aggrieved.

“I’ll leave it to Bob if anybody wouldn’t have been liable to think as
I did,” he declared, stoutly. “Now tell me how it happened that you’re
here.”

When Tom had been duly informed, Bob Somers remarked:

“Well, fellows, this certainly puts a new aspect on the case. What’s to
be done? Dave and Vic’ll think we’ve deserted ’em, sure. Another thing:
Dave didn’t have a cent.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Charlie. “Victor always carries nearly a
ton of the stuff in his pockets.”

“I’ll bet he wouldn’t lend Dave a nickel,” put in Tom, charitably.
“Looked to me as if he has it in for us.”

“Oh, get out,” scoffed Blake.

“Get off, you mean--eh, Bob?”

“We’ll most likely find a telegram waiting for us at the hotel,” said
Bob, shaking his head negatively at Tom’s suggestion.

“Let’s go and see.”

There was so much of interest in the streets that the boys didn’t
feel inclined to hurry themselves. So it was late in afternoon when
they finally set out in search of the hotel which Captain Bunderley
patronized.

By the time they reached it street lights and show windows were
gleaming brightly through the darkness of a very dark night.

The boys found Uncle Ralph in the reception room.

“Well, there’s no telegram from your friend yet,” was his greeting as
they stepped toward him. When his eyes lighted upon Tom Clifton’s tall
figure he half arose in his chair. “’Pon my word--what on earth does
this mean?” he exclaimed. “Where did you come from, boy?”

Tom was visibly embarrassed, as the eyes of every one in the room were
immediately leveled upon him.

“I blew in on the motor car,” he began, “and----”

“What--on the motor car--alone?”

“Yes, sir; and----”

“Let’s have this story right from the beginning,” thundered Uncle
Ralph, bringing his fist down on the table with a resounding bang, a
proceeding which added considerably to Tom’s confusion.

It wasn’t very easy for the tall boy to relate his story, especially
with a number of people sitting around, all apparently eager to hear
him speak. Uncle Ralph’s loud voice was the cause of this. He plunged
in bravely, however, being very careful indeed not to let out a hint
regarding Victor’s supposed trick.

Many and varied were Captain Bunderley’s observations as the tale was
told. The captain couldn’t help expressing his frank opinion at all
times, and in this case it wasn’t favorable to Tom.

“Why on earth did you do such a silly thing, boy?” he stormed.

“Silly?” cried Tom, aghast.

“Certainly; absolutely so.”

Tom, in helpless confusion, looked from Bob to Charlie.

“Silly?” he repeated, in fainter accents.

His face flushed a deep crimson. Then, suddenly, all the fire in his
nature flashed into a flame of burning indignation.

“It wasn’t a bit silly, sir,” he declared, fiercely.

“Now just see here, young chap”--the captain’s big finger waved
before Tom’s eyes; his voice boomed through the room with appalling
distinctness--“it was silly! What will Victor and Dave think when they
find you and the motor car missing?”

“I--I--don’t know, sir.”

“Of course you don’t. But just imagine how worried those two boys may
be.”

“Victor--perhaps; not Dave, sir. Besides, it isn’t my fault.”

“Not your fault?”

“No, sir. But for your running off with Bob and Charlie it never would
have happened.”

Tom came perilously near wilting under the captain’s stern gaze; only
by a desperate effort could he control his shaky nerves.

The lines on the skipper’s face softened; the harsh look faded from his
eyes.

“That’s true, my boy,” he said, reflectively; “quite true! Shake hands
and forget what I said. But the mischief must be undone at once. Bob,
I’m going to call up the hotel at Kenosha by long distance ’phone. My
sister, if she knew the situation, I am sure would be intensely worried
about the boy.”

The three followed the captain’s burly form into the office.

Tom’s expression had undergone a most remarkable change; his face now
wore a look of conscious triumph.

“I squelched him some--eh, Bob?” he whispered in scarcely audible
tones. “He couldn’t make me the goat, oh, no!”

“Be with you in a moment,” bawled out the captain, entering a telephone
booth.

Little things like a closed door and a pile of boards couldn’t keep
Uncle Ralph’s voice within bounds. Presently they heard him say: “What!
Couldn’t give ’em the telegram because they’ve gone? How’s that?--When?
’Pon my word! And left no message, either? Don’t expect ’em back? Why
not?”

The answer was evidently far from satisfactory, for, with a sharp “I’ll
call you up later,” Captain Bunderley flipped the receiver back into
place and stalked outside.

“Neither of ’em is at the hotel,” he exclaimed. “The clerk says they
went off at different times. Victor finally came back, but left again.
Says the stout boy asked for credit, but he was obliged to refuse.”

“Gee whiz!” cried Bob.

Then he promptly explained Dave’s situation, while Uncle Ralph’s brow
clouded over.

“A very annoying state of affairs, indeed,” he pronounced. “But let us
go in to supper, boys. Perhaps by the time we’re through some word may
have arrived.”

But it hadn’t. And when Uncle Ralph called up the Kenosha hotel a
second and third time the same laconic answer was always received--“No,
sir; they have not yet returned.”

“Well, that settles it,” cried Bob Somers, at length. “We’ll motor
right back to Kenosha and find ’em.”

“What!--On a night so black that a black cat would make a light spot in
the landscape?” exclaimed Captain Bunderley, protestingly.

“Oh, that kind of thing doesn’t worry us,” broke in Tom, eagerly. “Why,
when we were in Wyoming----”

“Oh, my!” groaned Charlie.

“Besides, it’s going to storm,” went on the captain, seeing a look in
Bob Somers’ eyes which indicated a settled determination.

“We have everything to protect us from the weather, sir. It’ll be a
regular lark. Coming, fellows?”

“Bet your life!” cried Tom, enthusiastically.

Charlie Blake, however, held back.

“Oh, look here, Bob, what’s the use?” he demurred. “We might miss
’em, and have all our trouble for nothing. It isn’t safe, either,
traveling----”

“Well, if you’re afraid, that ends it,” put in Tom, loftily.

“Who said I was afraid?” snapped the “grind.”

“Oh, nobody, of course,” said Tom, looking very wise.

“Then don’t chatter like a goose.”

“Did I ever hear of such nerve! If----”

“Cut it out, fellows,” laughed Bob. “Captain, we’ll send you a telegram
just as soon as those chaps are rounded up.”

The former seaman smiled quizzically. To his mind, talking about the
trip in a brightly-lighted room and actually undertaking it were two
such widely different propositions that he had little confidence in the
boys sticking to their determination. “They may possibly go as far as
the city limits,” he thought, “but that long stretch of lonely road and
the blackness will send ’em back.”

“Sure you want to try it?” he said, aloud.

“Yes, sir, the very worst way,” laughed Bob. “Now, Charlie----”

[Illustration: “LOOK OUT FOR YOURSELVES, BOYS”]

Blake, anticipating what he was about to say, and noticing a peculiar
grin on Tom’s face, held up his hand.

“I’m going,” he said, in remarkably sour tones.

“That’s fine.”

Captain Bunderley gave each a hearty grasp of the hand.

“Look out for yourselves, boys,” he cautioned. “Remember: if I had any
authority over you I might not consent to your going.”

“Oh, don’t worry about us, sir,” said Bob. “We’ll be all right.”

“Down some embankment, I s’pose,” muttered Charlie.

Outside, Bob took a good look at the sky.

“I guess the skipper is right about the weather,” he remarked, as they
started off in the direction of the garage.

Half an hour afterward the three arrived at the building. It was a very
large garage containing many machines. The glare of electric lights
revealed none more imposing than the Rambler Club’s motor car.

“Not a speck o’ mud left on her,” said the man in charge. “Going out
to-night, sir?”

“Right away,” answered Tom, with an air of importance. “Pile in,
fellows.”

The fellows “piled” in.

“We may be back to-night, and we may not,” said the tall boy, handing
over the amount of the bill and a generous tip. “Let ’er go, Bob.
So-long!”

A deafening roar abruptly filled the whole room with thunderous echoes.
Quick gasps and throbs followed, while the exhausts flung to the air
whirling clouds of spent gases. The two head and two side lamps threw a
brilliant glare over the floor and walls and cut a pathway through the
open door to the street beyond.

The trembling machine, responding to its master’s touch, glided forward.

“This sure ain’t no kind o’ a night for joy ridin’,” remarked the man
in charge, as he watched the big car swinging into the highway.




CHAPTER XVII

ELEPHANTS


The boys didn’t turn back at the city limits as Captain Bunderley
had fully expected they would. Instead, the motor car finally passed
through South Milwaukee, and, under the cool and skilful guidance of
Bob Somers, plunged steadily along the muddy road, its lamps throwing a
strange, fantastic stream of light far in advance. Through its magic,
objects continually leaped out of the night, only to be greedily
snatched back by the mantle of gloom. Lights suggestive of hobgoblins
flitted from tree to tree, or swept across fields and underbrush, but
in the immensity of space beyond the glare blackness held supreme
control.

Heavy gusts of wind, moaning and whistling dismally in their hurried
flight, almost drowned the soft, even purring of the motor. Splashing
rain-drops hurled themselves against the wind shield and top; the
storm, long delayed, was beginning to let loose its pent-up wrath.

“Guess we’re going to have a peach of a time,” muttered Blake. “If I
hadn’t come, though, Tom would have kidded me about it for the next six
months.”

The disconsolate “grind” huddled back on the rear cushions listening to
the wind and rain and the soft swish of flying mud, as the rubber-tired
wheels occasionally plunged through pools and puddles.

“Let ’er out a bit, Bob,” encouraged Tom. “Don’t be afraid.” He pulled
the collar of his raincoat about his neck. “No constable around now
to stop our scorching. Gee! Ought to have seen me burning up the road
to-day, Bob; good you weren’t along, Charlie. Hey--asleep back there?”

“How in thunder could a fellow be asleep with a din like this knocking
against his ear-drums?” growled Blake. “Where are we, Bob?”

“Somewhere between South Milwaukee and Racine--that’s all I know,”
answered the driver, with a laugh.

The wind blew harder; the rain, too, gradually increased in force
until sweeping torrents beat hard against the motor car, splashing its
occupants and forming tiny trickling pools in the bottom of the tonneau.

Not a vehicle had passed them; the country seemed absolutely deserted,
and only dim points of light shining in the windows of distant
farmhouses indicated that any life existed in the seeming wilderness.

The intense loneliness, the continual noises of the storm and the
haunting fear that hidden dangers might be lurking in their path
prevented Blake from entering into the spirit of the occasion.

“By Jove, this is certainly about the limit,” he groaned, inwardly.

From his position the forms of Bob Somers and Tom Clifton, bending low
to escape the cutting blasts, assumed a curiously unreal appearance
against the glare of acetylene light streaming ahead. Leaning forward,
he sought vainly to pierce the blackness; then, his face becoming the
target for splattering rain-drops, he hastily drew back, to straighten
up again a moment later as a shrill whistle sent a series of wild
reverberations across the landscape.

Over the air came faintly the rattle and roar of a fast express. The
road was taking them near the tracks of the Chicago and Northwestern
Railway. Charlie’s glance suddenly rested upon something in the
distance--a long row of tiny lights sweeping rapidly toward them.

Now they disappeared; now flashed into view once more; the sound of
grinding car wheels rose higher. Then, with almost incredible rapidity,
the tiny lights became gleaming windows seeming to radiate cheer as
they sped onward through the night. In an instant more the train was
lost to view, and only a faint screech of the locomotive’s whistle,
fading quickly into the roar of wind and splash of rain, told of its
passing.

“Wish I was on board,” sighed Charlie. “Tom Clifton’s grins’ll never
drag me into any more silly adventures. This is ’most as bad as that
awful motor yacht trip. I’ve been going some to-day, all right.”

On the front seat, Tom was saying:

“Motoring in such blackness is dandy fun. The idea that you’re going to
run into something the next minute makes it kind of spicy, eh? Gee,
Bob, the rain’s coming down harder every minute. Wonder where old Dave
and Victor are now?”

“Very likely taking it easy in the hotel,” grinned Bob.

“Christopher! What’s that?”

A low rumbling sound had suddenly risen above the warring of wind and
rain.

“Thunder,” answered the chauffeur, briefly.

“Thunderation! I thought for a second it was a message from Dave
passing right over our heads,” laughed Tom. “Some weather, this, Bob.
Hello--a village beyond!--See it?”

Bob nodded.

“We’ll soon twirl that far behind us,” he said.

The faint points of light dotting the gloom gradually loomed up
stronger; the white glare from their lamps at length flashed over a
house by the roadside; then on another, and within a few minutes the
touring car was sweeping steadily through the village.

Out from the darkness a small form seemed to literally hurl itself
toward them, and, racing alongside, filled the air with vociferous
barks and yelps.

Leaning over, Bob saw a shaggy form of nondescript color, and caught a
gleam from a pair of greenish eyes.

“Nice doggie!” he chirped, soothingly.

“He’s started off every other ‘nice doggie’ in town,” chuckled Tom.
“Listen!”

The baying of numerous canines, some near at hand, others in the
distance, was rising on the air.

“Some up-to-the-minute constable may nab us for disturbing sleeping
dogs,” said Tom.

“That’s so,” grinned Bob.

He manipulated the lever. The car leaped forward, leaving their
four-footed foe far in the rear. For a few moments, his senses keenly
alert for any signs of danger, he kept up the swinging gait, slowing up
as the lights of a store and smithy close to it shot into view.

As they passed the latter a cheerful glow was spreading out over the
street from a partly-open door. The boys caught a momentary glimpse of
figures and horses within, and heard vigorous blows on an anvil sending
forth a series of musical notes.

Then the long street, silent and deserted, slipped slowly by, and,
presently, the motor car was threading its way in the zone where human
activities seemed to have ceased. Another stretch of dreary blackness
followed, with the trees, in the grip of the blasting air currents,
soughing and snapping their branches mournfully.

Pelting rain still assailed the travelers. The motor car often rolled
through deep pools, scattering sheets of muddy spray aside. The boys
could hear the oozy, sucking sound of slimy masses torn from their
resting places and spattering against the guards.

“Say, Bob, wouldn’t this be a great place for the machine to break
down?” came in a sepulchral voice from the rear.

“You’d surely lose the polish on your shoes, Charlie,” laughed Tom.

“Wonder what Vic ’ud say to this?”

“Oh, he’d let out an awful howl.”

“And no one could blame him, either,” growled the disgusted Blake.

On and on went the car, through another village and then another, and,
finally, the city of Racine was seen asserting itself strongly against
the gloom of nature.

The boys found on entering the town that most of the stores were
closed; but the brightly-lighted streets and the sight of electric cars
and an occasional pedestrian was a welcome change after their siege of
riding in the lonely country.

“Too bad we can’t stay here for a while, fellows!” exclaimed Bob, “but
it’s the long road and blackness again for us.”

“Dave and Vic are probably sound asleep by this time,” grumbled
Charlie, “never dreaming about the lovely time we’re having on their
account.” Then he added, softly, to himself: “Guess I’ll be having
nightmares about it, though, for weeks to come.”

“Speed her up, Bob,” said Tom, eagerly. “A chap can see where he’s
going out here.”

The street stretched straight ahead, with not a vehicle in sight. The
glare of electric lights flashed on steadily falling rain; the gutters
ran with miniature floods, which gurgled and splashed along, carrying
on their muddy surfaces a miscellaneous collection of rubbish. Here
and there great pools reflected the buildings and telegraph poles with
weird effect.

Bob put on more speed; the motor car leaped forward, and for several
blocks they flew ahead at a breath-taking pace. An electric car coming
from the opposite direction presently whizzed past, a confused mass of
blurred lights and shadows.

“This is simply great, Bob!” cried Tom. “Enjoying yourself, Charlie?”
he added, with a laugh.

The “grind” was not; so the only answer Tom’s query brought forth was a
dissenting grunt.

Occasionally Blake took a long, careful survey of the situation. On
looking out, a few moments later, he saw a residential section passing
before his eyes. This was quickly followed by the open country and
desolation.

The storm, which had lulled during a short period, broke forth with
renewed activity. At intervals coppery colored lightning streaked
across the heavens, or forked its way to earth. In the brief instants
of dazzling glare a series of singularly clear impressions, of dark,
twisting clouds, of distant farmhouses, of rail fences, of waving
trees, and of formless patches of shadow were imprinted upon Charlie’s
brain. It filled the boy with a curious sense of awe and dread which
refused to be shaken off.

“A bend in the road just ahead, Bob!” Tom at length sang out.

“I see it,” responded the chauffeur.

The advancing rays of light showed the broad road disappearing around a
mass of vegetation.

“Have to slow up now,” said Bob--“danger of the machine skidding on
slippery ground like this.”

“You bet.”

As the touring car slackened speed Bob sent forth a long, warning blast
of the horn.

Tom laughed.

“Gee, Bob, what was the sense of doing that?” he cried. “We haven’t
passed many drays and trucks, or----”

Blake, listening indifferently, would have continued to do so but for
the loud, startled exclamation which brought Tom’s sentence to an
abrupt close.

He looked up quickly, then, with a gasp of astonishment, he fell
forward, bringing up against the seat in front with a violent bump.

The motor car had scarcely swept around the bend when the acetylene
glare picked out from the darkness the forms of three huge elephants
advancing directly in their path. Almost stupefied with amazement, the
boys, at the same instant, saw two men walking close beside them. Not
far behind, the light shone upon a huge, red wagon.

Before the warning cries which came from the men ceased Bob Somers had
thrown out the clutch and applied the brakes, bringing the machine to a
halt almost within its own length.

A shrill trumpet call sounded. The elephant in advance, showing
evidence of the greatest alarm, suddenly broke away from its keeper and
attempted to turn back.

Then followed a scene which made the nerves of the chauffeur and his
companions tingle with excitement. A huge pachyderm, wheeling his body
around, effectually blocked the other’s progress. Almost immediately
the third elephant got into action, while every movement made by the
men, in their efforts to pacify the animals, only added to their fear
and confusion.

“Great Scott!” breathed Charlie, grasping Bob by the arm.

The three towering forms were swinging wildly toward them, the nearest
threatening to plunge full tilt against the motor car.




CHAPTER XVIII

A ROUGH TRIP


“Victor, wouldn’t it be better for you to skip back to the hotel?”
asked Dave, looking anxiously at the sky.

The lawyer’s son thought of the dark, gloomy streets through which he
would be obliged to pass; then the idea of actually traveling with a
circus appealed strongly to his imagination.

“No, Brownie,” he answered, decidedly.

“Joe,” said Dave, turning toward the circus boy, “I see the light of a
drug store over yonder; guess they have a ’phone. I’m going to call up
the hotel. Can you wait, Joe?”

“Sure, Dave. But if Whiffin ketches me busy at doin’ nothin’ it means a
callin’ down--see?”

“All right, Joe; we’ll hurry,” said Dave, encouragingly.

“An’ while you’re gone I’ll help git the elephants ready,” announced
Joe, with sudden decision. “Them three old codgers goes ahead o’ us.”

Dave, followed by Victor, loped across the wet, soggy lot, or, rather,
tried to. But, although the journey was attended by much discomfort and
some risk of taking a header, they finally arrived at the drug store in
safety.

Dave promptly called up the hotel and was soon speaking to the night
clerk. The latter declined to open the telegram, but gave the stout boy
full information about the ’phone message which Captain Bunderley had
sent from Milwaukee.

“Well?” queried Victor, eagerly, as the historian hung up the receiver.

Dave briefly explained.

“There, you big Indian, I knew it!” exclaimed the lawyer’s son,
triumphantly. “A nice trick they played on us, eh? Well, I’m liable to
handle that Tom Clifton with awful carelessness when we meet again.
Now, Brownie”--his tone became imperious--“you just call up Uncle Ralph
on the long distance and tell him what’s what.”

With a broad smile, the stout boy obeyed.

To his disappointment, however, he was told that Captain Bunderley had
retired for the night.

“If it’s important we’ll get him right up for you,” came a faint voice
over the wire.

Dave did some rapid thinking. “Poor Joe is most likely fretting and
fuming about the delay,” he mused. “Besides, if I wait any longer there
may be another mix-up.”

He spoke in the transmitter again:

“Thank you; I’m in too much of a hurry. Will you kindly take down a
message and give it to the captain at once.”

The distant clerk assured him that he would. Dave quickly went over
the few facts which he thought it was necessary for the captain to
know, ending with: “He’ll hear from me in the morning.” “Good-bye” was
trembling on his tongue when an afterthought prompted him to ask: “How
many boys are in the party?”

“Three,” came the answer.

“One very tall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any of them about?”

“No; all went out together some time ago.”

“Thank you. Good-bye.”

“What did he say?” demanded Victor.

“Yes; Tom is there, all right.” Dave smiled. “Come on,” he added,
seeing the familiar expression of anger instantly flash into the
other’s face. He grasped the lad’s arm and hurried him outside. “No
time to lose, Vic,” he urged. “Look, the main tent is already down.”

“Just wait till I catch that tall chap!” exclaimed Victor, savagely.

Over on the lot, Joe Rodgers, standing at the head of a four-horse
team, was impatiently awaiting their reappearance.

“Here, you fellers, climb aboard fast,” he roared, the moment his eyes
lighted upon their figures. “We ought to been off long ago.”

It wasn’t an easy task for Victor to reach the high seat, but, with
considerable assistance, he finally managed it. Then Joe, seeming to
possess the nimbleness of a monkey, swung up beside him, while Dave,
to Victor’s great surprise, also showing much agility, immediately
followed.

At any other time Victor Collins’ sense of the proprieties might have
prevented him from accepting a seat beside a boy whose estate was as
lowly as that of “Mister” Joe Rodgers, but just now so many things
engaged his attention that he forgot to draw fine distinctions. From
his elevated perch he could look over a scene in which the weird and
picturesque were combined with pleasing effect.

By the aid of a brilliant calcium light and lanterns men were busily
engaged in loading the remaining wagons. The workers hurried about,
now out of the glare, then back again; the air was full of noise--of
shouts, of heavy planks being piled in place, of commands to horses, of
sledge-hammer blows. Lanterns bobbed from place to place, suggestive of
huge fire-flies. It was all very interesting to Victor; but Joe gave
him no further time to enjoy it.

Picking up the lines and raising his whip, he yelled lustily:

“Git ap!”

Victor glanced curiously at the driver. He wondered how it happened
that a boy apparently no older than himself was entrusted with the
care of a great four-horse team, and being under such responsibility
should show not the slightest trace of nervousness.

Before the wagon was in motion a loud “Hold on, there!” made all turn
abruptly around.

A man having three horses in tow was headed straight for the wagon.

“Whiffin says I’m to tie this here bunch o’ nags on the back o’ the
next wagon out,” explained the man. “Is that you, Rodgers?”

“It sure ain’t nobody else,” growled Joe. “Fasten ’em up quick, Tracy.
The elephants has went a’ready.”

Tracy performed his task with commendable celerity.

“All right, Joe,” he presently called. “Let ’er go!”

“Git ap!” roared the driver.

The dull thud of hoofs striking against the turf sounded; the leaders
swung around, plunged and reared. Down came an iron shoe, splintering a
stone and sending off a shower of sparks. Joe’s whip swished viciously,
cracking like pistol shots.

“Whoa boy--haw! Hi, hi! Steady, Billikin! Git over, there, you pesky
brute! Whoa boy!”

It required an immense amount of vocal exercise, as well as tugging at
the reins and many passes with the whip to get the huge bulk in motion.
The wagon suddenly gave an alarming creak, then lurched forward. Joe
yelled like a wild Indian. The horses stamped and strained with all
their might, and in a few moments more the vehicle was bumping and
jolting over the uneven ground.

“This here wagon’s chuck full o’ eats for the hosses,” remarked Joe,
when the road was reached.

“Oh, I say, Brownie, it’s beginning to rain again,” broke in Victor,
complainingly. “Isn’t that the meanest luck?”

“Here’s sumphin what’ll help keep it off them pretty duds o’ yourn,
Buster,” grinned Joe. From the back of the seat he extracted an oilskin
cover and a huge umbrella. “Sneak in clos’t, fellers,” he commanded
when the latter had been opened. “Then none o’ youse won’t be drownded.”

Joe was handling the reins with remarkable skill; the big wagon
rumbled along the street at good speed; and, on looking back, Dave
could see, barely perceptible in the gloom, several others following.

“Say, Joe,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “are you any relation to Mr.
Whiffin?”

“I sure ain’t,” answered Joe.

“How does it happen that you’re working in the circus?”

“’Cause when I weren’t no more’n twelve years old I was left an
orphan--understan’? So off I goes to me fadder’s sister; an’ I stays
with her an’ her husban’ a spell.”

“Didn’t you like it?”

“Like it? I should say not!” snorted Joe. “I eats too much for ’em. One
day me an’ him has some words ’bout it; an’ he up an’ says: ‘Git right
out o’ here, ye young cub.’ So I up an’ gits--see? I’m a purty good
feller, I am; but don’t nobuddy rile me.”

“I understand,” said Dave, gravely. “What did you do next?”

“Oh, I gits a job in a village; but the feller I worked for corks me
one over the ear, so I up an’ gits ag’in--understan’?”

“Have a hard time finding another place?”

Joe grinned.

“Oh, no,” he answered. “Drop me down in the middle of anywheres an’
I’ll land on me feet. I’ve newspapered it a bit.”

“How did you happen to meet Mr. Whiffin?”

Joe failed to respond immediately. The rain was beginning to beat hard
against the umbrella, while the furious gusts of wind threatened every
instant to tear it away.

Victor drew the oilskin as far up as he could; but the beating drops
still found him, and began to trickle off his cap in tiny streams.

“Ugh! This is about the limit,” he groaned.

“If ye failed inter the lake it’d be a heap worse,” remarked Joe,
cheerfully. “It were this way, Jumbo--I--I mean Dave---- Whoa there!
Confound that off hoss! Whoa--gee! Git over there!--Well, I was
lookin’ for a meal ticket, when, of a suddent, I runs across--whoa,
gee--Spudger’s Peerless. So I goes in an’ up an’ asks Whiffin for a
job. ‘Git out o’ here,’ says Whiffin. ‘Sure--when I’m ready,’ says I.
Then he kinder looks at me interested like, an’ says, ‘Who chased yer
away from your happy home, kid?’ An’ I up an’ tells him. So he gives me
a job as water-carrier.”

“That’s interesting,” said Dave. “Go ahead.”

“Whoa--gee! Confound that off hoss,” resumed Joe. “Then, after while,
he lets me drive wagons and keer for the hosses. There ain’t nuthin’ I
don’t know about them animals, Dave.”

“Satisfied with circus life, Joe?”

The boy pondered a moment.

“No, I ain’t,” he confided. “I’d like to git an eddication, an’ be
sumphin. But I ain’t never had no chanc’t. I wonder if I ever will have
a chanc’t!” he added, wistfully.

“What is your ambition?” pursued Dave.

“I dunno. Maybe I’d like to keep a peanut, pretzel and lemonade stand,”
answered Joe. “I know’d a feller what follered the show with one. He
did good, too--saved a hundred and fifty dollars in three years. He’s
gittin’ old now--most twenty-five, I reckon.”

“Poor decrepit old gentleman,” sighed Dave. “Say, Joe,” he added, “does
your uncle know where you are?”

“Sure! Whiffin up an’ writes ’im; an’ what Uncle Jim writ back must
have been hot stuff, ’cordin’ to Whiffin. But I kep’ me job, all right.”

“Say, Brandon, why did you ever drag me into a mess like this?” broke
in a peevish voice. “It’s raining worse every minute.”

“Too bad, Vic.”

Dave, with his cap pulled well over his eyes, peered out.

The houses were becoming further and further apart. Here and there
lights in windows shone dimly through the darkness. The line of trees
on either side of the road rattled and snapped their myriads of
branches, occasionally surrendering to the wildly eddying currents the
quota of leaves demanded. Everything was dripping wet; water fell from
the umbrella in streams; water slid ceaselessly down the sides of the
big red wagon; water formed pools on top. From the nostrils and heaving
bodies of the blanketed horses came clouds of steam.

Victor, though well protected, felt miserable and disgusted and, as it
was his nature to always put the blame on others, he began to harbor
an additional grievance against Dave Brandon.

“But for the big Indian I wouldn’t be here,” he grumbled to himself.
“And just listen to the way he’s chinning to this Rodgers kid! It
certainly is enough to make a fellow tired for a whole week.”

“No, I ain’t never had no chanc’t,” Joe was repeating, dolefully. “I
ain’t no good at readin’ or writin’.”

“Would you go to school?” asked Dave.

“Wouldn’t I, though,” said Joe; “eh, Buster?”

He nudged Victor sharply in the ribs.

“Cut it out,” growled Victor.

“I can’t,” grinned Joe. “Ribs is ginerally cut out by surgeons. Whoa!
Gee! It’s most time we ketched up to them elephants.”

With his eyes keenly scanning the road, he urged his team ahead by both
voice and whip. Now on a slight down grade, the huge wagon rumbled
along at considerable speed, occasionally jolting and jarring, as the
wheels slipped into ruts or rolled through deep miry stretches.

Dave finally detected two faint spots of light struggling into view
some distance ahead.

“It’s Scotty an’ Robins leadin’ the elephants,” explained Joe. “Know’d
I ketch up with ’em soon. Hi, hi! Git ap! Say, this here is sure some
storm, ain’t it, fellers? Lightning now, by Jingo!”

A glare had suddenly illumined the landscape, and in the instantaneous
flash the forms of three elephants at the crest of a rise showed as
blurred masses of dark.

“By George! It’s enough to give a chap the creeps for fair,” thought
Victor, with a shiver.

Conversing was difficult. The three, though huddling under the umbrella
as far as possible, were still the target for beating rain. At each
flash of lightning the huge, unwieldy forms of Nero, Titan and Colossus
loomed up more clearly, and, at length, when the leading horses began
to strike their iron-shod hoofs in the muddy road close behind them,
the lanterns in the hands of Scott and Robins described a flashing
circle in the air.

Joe answered this salute with a lusty yell.

“We’re gittin’ there, fellers,” he added.

“We’re most swimmin’ there,” answered Robins, gruffly.

“And’ll soon need a raft,” put in Scotty.

“I’ll throw ye a life-line when ye needs one,” roared Joe.

Then several miles fell grudgingly behind, with scarcely a word
exchanged between men or boys. Dave, in spite of storm and discomfort,
his eyes tightly closed, was almost nodding, while Victor, utterly
miserable, sat staring straight ahead.

But all this was changed in the most startling and abrupt fashion.

The loud blasts of a motor horn, echoing weirdly, brought Dave up with
a start.

“What!” he gasped. “What!”

His eyes rested on a brilliant glare of light flooding the darkness.
Then a big touring machine glided around a bend. Although the chauffeur
handled his car skilfully, the unexpected sight threw the elephants
into a state of panic.

“Them brutes is goin’ to git!” yelled Joe, as the rumbling of the wagon
wheels ceased.

An instant later Dave and Victor saw the boy swinging from his seat to
the ground.




CHAPTER XIX

DAVE DOES SOME RIDING


Dave Brandon immediately furnished another example of his ability to
move quickly when he chose to stir himself. Joe had scarcely landed
before the stout boy was at his side.

The crisp whirr of wheels and the thud of a horse’s hoofs was sounding
close behind them. Dave stepped to one side, and, by the light from
a row of lanterns on the red wagon, saw a buggy containing two men
rapidly approaching. Just after it had splashed past him one of the men
spoke up.

The thin, rasping notes which poured forth at once proclaimed his
identity; it was Mr. Peter Whiffin.

Dave, however, in the general confusion, amidst the noise of the storm
and the shouts of the elephant keepers, could scarcely understand
a word. The alarming actions of the big animals, too, occupied his
undivided attention. Despite the frantic efforts of Scott and Robins,
the pride of Spudger’s Peerless broke away, the largest almost sending
his cumbersome body against the motor car.

The next few instants witnessed a scene which made even the nerves of
steady-going Dave Brandon tingle with excitement. It was impossible to
tell which way the animals might turn, and any one standing in the road
ran great danger of being knocked down and trampled under foot.

But the movement of the big creatures was not left long in doubt. With
another loud trumpeting, Colossus wheeled away from the motor car, then
started at a loping gait around the bend, closely followed by Titan and
Nero.

“I know’d it! I know’d it!” yelled Joe. “An’ they’ll mash anythin’ flat
what gits in their way.”

“After ’em, boys; after ’em!” rose the voice of Mr. Ollie Spudger, in
despairing accents. “We don’t want no more suits for damages filed
ag’in the show. If anybody as much as sees the beasts runnin’ loose
they’ll sue, though only their feelin’s is hurt!”

Scott and Robins were already struggling through the mud and rain in a
desperate effort to overtake their charges.

“After ’em for all you’re worth, boys!” bawled Spudger.

“Twenty-five cents for the feller what stops ’em!” roared Mr. Whiffin.

“I’ll take a chanc’t on gittin’ them five nickels!” shouted Joe,
snatching a lantern from its place on the wagon and dashing off.

Dave Brandon was conscious of the fact that the automobilists, after
a sharp passage of words with Mr. Whiffin, had gone on, apparently
thinking that the elephants would soon be under control.

“That’s the way with them automobile fellers,” he heard Mr. Whiffin
exclaim. “Don’t keer what happens as long as they have their fling.”

Then the buggy wheels began grinding through the mud again. Mr. Spudger
and his manager were in hot pursuit of elephants and men.

Dave stood, irresolute, then:

“Yes, I’ll do it,” he exclaimed, grimly. “As Joe says, if those animals
should happen to bump into anything--whew!”

“What’s all that queer mumbling down there, Brownie?” cried Victor.
“Hey--where are you going?”

Without making any reply, Dave unhooked a lantern from the side of the
wagon and made a dash to the rear.

The rays of light flashed over three horses, whose dilated nostrils and
gleaming eyes gave indication of their frightened state. They strained
and tugged frantically in an effort to pull away.

“Whoa, boy, whoa!” exclaimed Dave, soothingly, to the nearest, a coal
black animal. “Whoa, boy!”

Warily, he stepped out of the way of rapidly-moving hoofs.

“Here’s where some of my cowboy experience will come in nicely,” he
murmured. “Whoa there, old chap!” His hand gently stroked a quivering,
glossy neck. “Whoa, I say!”

Working near those swinging bodies, in a dim light, with rain and wind
beating relentlessly upon him, had an element of danger in it which
lent spice to the situation. Dave’s lantern, slung over his arm, sent
curious patches of shadow dancing across the ground and reflected in
sharp metallic dashes in water and ooze.

In a few moments the lad succeeded in untying the rope. The black
horse, freed, reared and plunged; but Dave’s strong grip on the halter
could not be shaken off.

“It won’t be so easy riding you, old boy, with no bridle or saddle,” he
muttered, “but here goes!”

“For gracious’ sake, what are you about, Brandon?” screeched Victor, in
alarm, for the first time realizing his intention. “Look out, you silly
thing; you’ll get tossed or be mashed into a jelly!”

To his unbounded amazement, he saw Dave Brandon spring lightly astride
the prancing horse.

“Great Scott!” he cried, breathlessly.

“I’ll be back soon, Vic,” shouted Dave.

He pressed his knees against the animal’s side, leaned far over on
its neck to escape the full force of the storm, then, with both hands
gripping the halter, held on tight as the horse shot forward.

Victor saw him being carried swiftly around the bend, the lantern
over his arm swaying violently, and heard the sound of pounding hoofs
growing faint in the distance.

It wrung from his lips a cry of admiration.

“By George, but that chap has wonderful nerve!”

Meanwhile, all of Dave Brandon’s skill in horsemanship was called into
play. The spirited black horse, frantic with fear, galloped furiously
along the slippery road, while Dave, jolted and shaken, sawed hard on
the leather straps of the halter.

“Look out!” he yelled.

His ringing voice was added to the warning of clattering hoofs.

Two dusky forms edged with sharp lights from the rays of their lanterns
sprang hastily to the side of the road as the apparent runaway bore
down upon them. Another, further in advance, loping along at remarkable
speed--Joe Rodgers, in a desperate sprint to capture the promised
quarter--was seen to stumble.

Dave had a vision of a lantern performing some remarkable evolutions,
and knew, more by impressions than actual sight, that Joe Rodgers had
taken a header to safety in the mud.

And all this time the red lantern on the back of Spudger’s vehicle was
growing larger and stronger. A mass of formless dark, with surprising
suddenness, resolved itself into the shape of a buggy and trotting
horse.

As Dave sped past he heard loud exclamations and yells in Peter
Whiffin’s familiar voice. Then he was plunging on and on into the
blackness, with nothing but an occasional gleam of electric flame to
light the way.

At last, after a determined fight, he regained control of the maddened
animal. His face was stinging from the effects of beating rain and
wind and his eyes were aching. But the wild ride had filled him with a
strange sense of exhilaration.

As a vivid streak of bluish lightning forked its way earthward,
the rider gave a gasp of astonishment and alarm. The instantaneous
glare had revealed with startling clearness the ponderous forms of
three elephants but a few yards distant. Even before the jarring
reverberations of thunder began to sound the dull thud of heavy feet
splashing steadily through mud and water reached Dave Brandon’s ears.

It was a moment for quick action and steady nerves.

By the time his fierce yells and strenuous exertions had swerved the
horse to one side the light of the lantern was falling on a huge bulk
which towered high above him. He saw the elephant’s great head swing
around, its eyes gleaming with fear.

“Great Scott!” murmured Dave.

His nerves tingled at the thought of being thrown.

He steered clear of a second shadowy form and soon a third detached
itself faintly from the surroundings.

The already badly frightened Colossus became a great deal more so as
horse and rider shot alongside. A shrill trumpet call rang out. The
huge elephant increased his pace, blocking every effort of the horseman
to gallop past. And so, neck and neck, the animals raced along the
lonely, water-soaked country road.

Every flash of lightning brought into view fences on either hand. Dave
knew there was no safety on either side or behind. Only his horse’s
speed could carry him out of the dangerous situation in which he had
placed himself. The touch of a great rough body brushing against his
shoulder sent a thrill to his heart.

“This is just a little more than I bargained for,” he thought, grimly.

“Get up, Blacky, get up!” he cried out, desperately. His hand descended
hard on the animal’s flank. “Go it, old boy! Go it, for your life!”

Dave strained his eyes to pierce the darkness, fearful that the
obscurity concealed some object into which they would be plunged with
headlong force.

It was one of the most thrilling moments in Dave Brandon’s life. Never
before had he taken so many chances; and never before had he been so
determined to win.

The boy could hear the labored breathing of his horse and saw patches
of foam flung to the wind. The rapid pace over the rough road was fast
telling on the animal’s strength. Thus, through the night and storm,
the wild flight continued, with neither gaining any advantage until
the black horse, by a supreme effort, nosed ahead of its monster rival.

“Good for you, Blacky!” shouted Dave, exultingly.

His lantern whirled in front of Colossus’ head, then again, and again,
while he yelled with all his remaining force.

Each time he was in danger of being hurled from his seat; each time
the exertion made his heart thump harder. But the actions of the big
elephant caused him to keep up the fight with every ounce of strength
in his body.

The panic-stricken beast seemed to have no desire to face that curious
flashing light which occasionally grazed his upraised trunk. The pride
of Spudger’s, seeing no escape from the terrifying object in front,
voiced his fear in another loud call, swung abruptly across the road
and continued along on the other side.

Dave promptly met this move by a shift of the lantern.

Almost immediately, Colossus slowed up, while the stout boy, feeling
that the victory had been won, reined in his steaming horse, so as to
keep directly in front of the elephant.

Within a few minutes the struggle was over. The pachyderm, unable to
elude the horseman, wavered, then came to a sudden stop.

Dave Brandon was too winded to shout his exultation. He wheeled his
horse around and halted in the middle of the road. Water poured from
his hat and coat in streams; his clothes were patched with mud, but, as
he wearily straightened up, the glow of the lantern showed the familiar
broad smile on his face.

“By Jingo,” he muttered, “traveling with a circus surely has its
thrills!”

Some five minutes later, when Messrs. Spudger and Whiffin hurriedly
drove up, in a state of great excitement, they found three elephants
huddled close together by the wayside, while a lone horseman, almost as
motionless as a statue, was standing on guard.

And it didn’t take Mr. Whiffin’s sharp eyes very long to discover the
identity of this vigilant sentinel.

“Didn’t I tell yer it was the fat feller who passed us, Mr. Spudger?”
he demanded, “an’ by gum, he done the trick!”

“And I should say, at twenty-five cents, it was about the cheapest bit
of work I ever heard of. And if he’s saved me from looking into any
lawyer’s face I’ll add another twenty-five cents myself.”

Mr. Spudger laughed gruffly at his own humorous observation.

“We’d best be keerful not to make too much noise,” warned Mr. Whiffin.
“I ain’t hankerin’ to look after them elephants.”

“That’s right,” assented Mr. Spudger. “Let’s do all our conversation in
whispers. If they ever git started on the back track this buggy would
be only fit for kindlin’ fires, and I don’t like surgeons no more’n
lawyers.”

After this remark only the noise of the storm was heard until Joe
Rodgers, a sadly bedraggled object, arrived on the scene of inaction.

“Stand as still as if you was a-loafin’ on the show, Joe,” commanded
Whiffin, disagreeably. “If it hadn’t been for that there quarter you
wanted to git you’d be asleep on the wagon now.”

Scott, the elephant trainer, with his assistant, Robins, next appeared,
and the men quickly secured their charges.

A few specks of light on the road and the low rumble of wagon wheels
soon indicated that the circus train was approaching.

“You’re the greatest feller in the world, Dave!” exclaimed Joe,
admiringly. “I’ll bet Bill Potts never would have done it.”

“His forte is artistic riding,” laughed Dave. “Out on the plains with
the cowboys taught me the plain variety.”

The leaders of the four-horse team swung up and the driver, who had
taken Joe’s place, clambered to the ground.

“Oh, hasn’t this been another glorious day!” piped a small figure on
the seat. “Are you safe, Brownie? Goodness, but this has given me an
awful fit of the nerves.”

“I’m all right, Vic,” answered Dave. He led the black horse to its
former place behind the wagon. “What’s that? Did you speak, Mr.
Whiffin?”

A voice had come from the buggy.

“Step this way,” said the manager.

When his summons were obeyed he leaned out from beneath the shelter,
extending a lean hand toward Dave’s indistinct form.

“Here’s that quarter, boy!”

“And you needn’t give a receipt for it just now,” guffawed Mr. Spudger.

“Thank you!” laughed Dave.

Joe, already in his place, his hands grasping the lines, waited until
Dave Brandon was seated beside him, then his long whip cracked sharply,
the horses plunged and struggled, the wheels reluctantly began to move,
and the interrupted journey was resumed.




CHAPTER XX

VIC TURNS UP


The motor car boys arrived late at night, or, rather, early in the
morning at Kenosha, left their mud-begrimed machine at the garage, and
hastened to the hotel. There, to their great satisfaction, they learned
about Dave’s telephone message, then, with minds relieved from all
further anxiety, congregated in Bob Somers’ room.

“Well, we have made a night of it,” began Charlie.

“And a morning, too,” piped Tom.

“The last of yesterday and the first of to-day have been nicely rolled
together,” laughed Bob.

“Say”--Tom managed to stifle a tremendous yawn--“I certainly like the
nerve of that fellow in the buggy.”

“That’s just what I didn’t like about him,” said Charlie. “It’s sure
that he never took any correspondence school lessons in politeness.”

“And the idea of his taking down our license number! Honest, Bob, I
came mighty near calling him down for that.”

“He made a noise like a steam calliope, but he couldn’t take us down,”
grinned Bob.

“I certainly hope we don’t meet him again,” yawned Charlie.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know him from a baseball bat,” said Tom. “By this
time, fellows, I reckon Dave and Victor have made a safe steal for
home--meaning they’ve reached Milwaukee.”

“And if so Captain Bunderley won’t be put out,” chirped Blake.

“I wonder if that is where Dave and Vic really have gone,” mused Bob.

“Why, of course!” answered Tom, making an heroic attempt to control his
blinking eyes.

“Let us have some deductions, quick, Tom,” urged Charlie, with a wink.

“Look out, or I’ll make you run like a ball player off for first!” said
Tom, scowling slightly.

“But no one could throw me out,” retorted the “grind.”

“Guess I’ll turn in, fellows,” remarked Bob. “Remember we have to hit
the trail again to-morrow morning.”

“I can never forget the agonizing look of the chap who had to clean our
car,” quoth Charlie. “Wasn’t it the biggest cake of mud you’ve ever
seen? Good-night, Bob. Tom will yawn his head off in a minute.”

“Get out!” scoffed Tom. “I’m not a bit more tired than anybody else.”

“Oh, yes, I s’pose you’d like to do it all over again,” laughed
Charlie. “Coming?”

And Tom went.

It was very late when the boys got up; in fact, so late that a glance
at the clock seemed to give each a pang of conscience.

“Simply awful,” murmured Tom. “Can’t understand it. Why, I didn’t feel
a bit tired last night.”

Immediately after refreshing themselves with a good meal the boys
started for the garage.

Benjamin Rochester, more than ever convinced that there was something
very mysterious in the actions of the crowd, received them with the
gravity due to such somber thoughts.

“Yes, sir, de car am done been cleaned,” he remarked to Bob Somers. “I
guess dat machine tried to burrow its way to de center ob de earth.”

“Well, it was as dark as a tunnel last night,” explained Bob, “and we
hit some of the soft spots.”

“Guess yo’ must hab scooped ’em all up.”

Two minutes later the car was whirling out of the garage.

“Dey is certainly de queerest bunch I done ebber heard ob,” muttered
Benjamin. “I s’pects I’ll read somethin’ ’bout ’em in de papers befo’
long.”

Through the streets of Kenosha, by the shortest route, sped the big
machine. Charlie Blake’s association with the Ramblers was beginning
to have an effect upon his timid disposition. His mind was no longer
filled with dread misgivings, and Bob, who thought that his chief
trouble lay in a lack of confidence in himself, kept urging him to try
his hand at running the car.

And finally Blake, to Tom’s great astonishment, did try.

“Great Scott, you’re going some now!” exclaimed the tall boy. “Play
ball with that kind of spirit and we’ll have a winning nine.”

“Bully boy,” said Bob, resuming his place at the wheel. “You’ve got the
hang of the thing in great shape.”

Blake felt a glow of satisfaction. He was beginning to realize just why
he had so often failed.

With Bob in control, the landscape seemed to fly by with astonishing
rapidity, and evidences that they were approaching a big town soon
greeted their eyes.

“Say, look at that, fellows!” exclaimed Tom, suddenly.

A gorgeously colored poster by the side of the road depicted some of
the “Stupendous attractions” of Ollie Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless
Circus and Menagerie.

“That’s worth looking at,” said Bob, bringing the machine to a stop.

“They’re going to stay on the scene for three days,” remarked Tom.
“Say, Bob, that must be the very show we passed on the road last night.
Let’s motor around and take a squint.”

“Oh, goodness, I never cared less to see a circus,” put in Charlie.

“Well, it won’t do any harm.”

“Or any good, either.”

“Then that makes it even, eh, Bob? How do you vote?”

“We might as well run around that way, Tom.”

“I suppose Clifton won’t be happy unless he can give the elephants
peanuts,” grunted Charlie.

The scattered buildings had given place to long rows. Along a wide
avenue lined on both sides with handsome residences the Rambler Club’s
motor car carried the three toward the business section of Racine.
Again the chauffeur was obliged to look out for cars, vehicles and
pedestrians, but, as no time was lost save when absolutely necessary,
the town was quickly crossed.

At length they came in sight of several circus tents rising in the
midst of a vast lot. They could see, too, a number of huge red wagons,
a miscellaneous collection of venders’ stands and a considerable crowd
seeming to move in all directions.

“Gee! Looks like some show to me,” remarked Tom, highly interested.
“Mighty big pictures they have hanging up by the entrance.”

“That’s high art,” said Charlie.

“How do you know?” queried Tom.

“That’s easy; they’re at least six feet off the ground.”

“Huh, you’re getting real smart,” snapped Tom.

“I’m stocking up with ginger for the football games,” laughed Charlie.

“Oh, I can see the barker barking,” said Tom, suddenly. “Aren’t they
the windy chaps? I’m just a little bit too cute to be taken in by them.
Say, wouldn’t you think a man would have more self-respect than to
stand out there sporting a red coat and dinky little cap like that?”

“Strikes me he’s a kind of fat fellow,” said Blake, with an earnest
stare. “He ought to be out doing some useful work instead of trying to
separate dimes and nickels from a lot of easy marks. Just look at the
way he moves his arms!”

“You might think he was a lawyer pleading a case in court,” laughed
Bob. “I guess he would about match Dave in size.”

“Hello!” said Charlie, his eyes resting on one of the large paintings.
“There’s a picture of Adolphus, the boy giant. His figure seems to
match our Tom’s.”

“Oh, cut out the Victor Collins remarks,” growled Clifton. “Stop here,
Bob. It’s jolly good fun to watch the people. Crickets, what a noise!
Why--why--what’s the matter?”

Bob Somers was staring toward the barker with a mystified expression
which gradually deepened. He was about to speak, when:

“My gracious alive, if there isn’t that fellow, Tom Clifton!” came to
their ears.

The three boys turned quickly at the sound of a familiar voice, and, to
their utter astonishment, found themselves facing Victor Collins.




CHAPTER XXI

EXPLANATIONS


Great as was the amazement of the boys to see Victor, his next words
amazed them still more.

“Come down out of that, Clifton, and I’ll punch you good and plenty!”
he howled.

Before Tom Clifton could gather his wits together and reply, Victor was
speaking again.

“That was about the meanest and silliest trick I ever heard of!” he
exclaimed, brandishing a small white fist in the air. “I’ve got it in
for you, too, Blakelets; and ditto for you, Bob Somers.”

The group in the motor car exchanged glances of bewilderment. Then the
chauffeur spoke up.

“How did you get here, Victor?” he asked.

This question seemed to increase Victor’s fiery attitude.

“Oh, don’t try to jolly me,” he screeched. “Put that innocent look off
your face, Tom Clifton. And if you’re not too scared step down and get
the first instalment of what’s coming to you!”

Tom Clifton, fairly aghast, flushed crimson. For him to be threatened
in the presence of his chums by a boy of Victor’s size was more than
his feelings could stand.

Words and actions came to his relief. Springing to the ground he seized
Victor by the arm.

“What’s the matter, you silly little duffer?” he exclaimed, fiercely.
But, like a flash, the thought came to him that, after all, it might
be only a joke. “Oh, it’s all right, Victor,” he added, with forced
calmness. “You can’t string me.”

“Or rope me into believing any taffy. I’ll show you how much joke
there’s in it!”

Something happened.

Victor’s small fists began to move with truly remarkable speed. It was
Tom Clifton’s ribs that stopped several snappy punches.

“Ouch! Quit it!” yelled Tom, jumping aside with undignified haste.
“Stop--stop, I say!”

But whichever way he turned Victor was always dancing before him.

“You would make me miss that motor yacht trip, eh? Thought maybe I
looked soft, eh? Well, here’s one for that!”

Two pairs of restraining hands suddenly gripped Victor Collins’
shoulders.

“No more of this, Vic,” commanded Bob, sternly. “We don’t want to start
a rival show on this side of the street.”

“You’re making more noise than that fat barker over there!” added
Charlie.

Tom Clifton, painfully conscious that he had made no effort to defend
himself, and feeling the various assortment of punches which Victor had
liberally bestowed upon him, suddenly decided that his reputation would
suffer unless some decisive action was taken.

A good shaking, he thought, would be about the proper thing.

“I’ll tend to him myself, Bob. Leave the whole thing to me!” he cried.

While Victor squirmed and struggled in Bob Somers’ strong grasp,
Charlie, bubbling over with mirth, had secured a firm hold on Tom
Clifton’s arm.

“I guess the circus has been too much for somebody’s nerves,” he
chuckled. “Better stop. There are about eighteen people looking over.”

“I don’t care!” stormed Tom.

“I do,” said Bob. “Let’s begin at the beginning, and come to the end
fast. Victor seems peeved about something. Speak up, Vic: what’s the
trouble?”

Realizing that the odds were too great to overcome, Victor simmered
down.

“There’d be thirty-nine people looking at us if I had my way,” he said,
sullenly. “This thing isn’t ended yet. Tall Indians are easy for me.”

“Then explanations ought to be easy,” laughed Bob.

Victor poured forth the story of his woes with a volubility that showed
a strong grip on the English language, and, as he proceeded, the faces
of the three completely changed expression. Bob and Charlie fairly
roared with mirth, while Tom, backing up against the motor car, seemed
almost too astonished to speak.

“We had our trip on the yacht,” cried Blake, between his peals of
laughter.

“And Tom did motor it to Milwaukee,” supplemented Bob. “But ‘things
are not always what they seem.’”

Briefly he explained the situation. His manner and tones were so
convincing as to completely silence Victor Collins’ suspicions. The
angry look slowly faded from his eyes. He stuck his hands into his
overcoat pocket and whistled shrilly.

For once in his life Victor had learned a lesson.

The story of Tom’s brilliant deductions was, of course, too good to
keep, so the “grind,” in spite of the tall boy’s frantic winks, gave
all the details with a charming disregard for his feelings.

The sheepish expression which had rested on Victor’s face gave place
to an enormous grin. He laughed quite as loudly as Bob and Charlie had
done a few moments before.

“Well,” growled Tom, “can you blame me? Weren’t you all twisted up
yourself? I went down to the wharf and saw----”

“So did Brandon and I; and all we saw was a mean-looking little fat
man. He had the nerve to come up and begin talking. ‘No; not even the
glitter of a cent,’ I told the beggar. Whew, wasn’t he hopping mad,
though! You ought to have seen how he beat it.”

“A little fat man!” cried Tom, opening his eyes. “Why--why, he must
have been the very one that told me about the boys going off on the
yacht.”

“He did?” gasped Victor.

“Yes! Why, he wasn’t any beggar. It wouldn’t take a Sherlock Holmes
to see that he had sized up the situation and was going to tell you
all about it. If you had only given him half a chance, Victor Collins,
this----”

“What! Are you going to try and put the blame on me?” interrupted
Victor, fiercely. “It wouldn’t have changed things at all--not a bit of
it. I knew the whole crowd had skipped.”

“Say, fellows!” Bob Somers’ loud exclamation put an end to the wrangle.
“No wonder that chap over there has a shape like Dave’s! It is Dave;
and I knew it!”

“Why, of course it is!” snapped Victor.

“Great Scott!” cried Tom. “What--that fellow with the red coat and
dinky little cap our Dave? Somebody fan me with a feather.”

“A rope’s end would suit your case better. Yes; Brandon has had to earn
his own living for once.”

“Help!” murmured Charlie. “This has been almost too much for my weak
intellect.”

“Now, Vic, do let us have an explanation!” cried Bob.

“You might have told us before, instead of raising such a howl about
me,” broke in Tom.

Victor immediately launched forth into a vivid description of their
experiences with the circus. He had a great deal to say, but the boys
did not stand still while listening to it. Each was too anxious to see
David Brandon in his new and astonishing rôle. They rapidly crossed the
street, then made as straight a line as booths, stands and people would
permit toward the entrance to the show.

All the sights and sounds peculiar to circuses were on every side.
Their thoughts, however, were centered upon the boy with the red coat
and tasseled cap who seemed to be talking as easily and naturally as
though merely reciting in school.

In the midst of an impassioned argument Dave caught sight of his
friends. He waved his arm, but that was all he could do in the way of
greeting.

The end of Victor’s story fell on inattentive ears.

Tom felt his heart swell with pride--pride that Dave--their Dave--had
again shown his versatility. Forgetting diffidence, he yelled:

“You didn’t know our automobile passed you on the road last night, eh,
Dave?”

And a moment after these words were spoken he observed a small, thin
man, who had been staring toward them, start forward. He also noticed,
as the man approached, that he was scowling angrily.

“Say, boys,” he exclaimed, in a voice which the Ramblers had heard on
the night before, “so it was your car that passed us on the road, eh?
Well, I’ve got a word to say!”




CHAPTER XXII

DAVE RESIGNS


Mr. Peter Whiffin, straining his neck in an effort to look squarely
into Tom Clifton’s eyes, also waved his finger threateningly in the air.

“Things has came to a pretty pass when a lot of irresponsible kids can
go chasin’ all around creation in a motor car. Do you know what you
done last night?”

The familiar flush appeared once more on Tom Clifton’s face as many
pairs of eyes were leveled in his direction.

“What do you mean?” he stammered.

“It’s a wonder it doesn’t mean a ten thousand dollar suit for damages!”
thundered Mr. Whiffin, savagely. “An’ it’s only by good luck that you
ain’t mixed up in the biggest kind of a rumpus. That car o’ yourn
stampeded our elephants--that’s what it done!”

“I’m very sorry to hear it,” spoke up Bob Somers, quietly, “but you
can hardly blame us. We had just as much right to the road as you.”

“No sass, now!” cried Whiffin.

Tom was trembling with indignation.

“Seems to me you’re handing some out yourself,” he managed to say.

“I’m good at it,” snapped Whiffin. “Anybody what deserves sass gits
their full share from me.”

“By George, if I’d only known it was the Ramblers in that car,” cried
Victor, recovering from his surprise, “maybe some mud balls wouldn’t
have been flying!”

“I must say this has been a wonderful motor car trip,” remarked Charlie.

“Just supposin’ them elephants had run inter somethin’?” Mr. Whiffin’s
querulous tones rose above all other sounds. “Just supposin’ a farmer’s
wagon had been in the way----”

“Or a picnic party,” broke in Tom, satirically.

No doubt Mr. Whiffin would have made a very interesting retort but
for the fact that his eyes happened to rest on the form of a stocky,
freckle-faced boy. This lad, attracted by the sound of his voice, had
come forward and was taking in the scene with much apparent interest.

The audacity of such a proceeding seemed to appal Mr. Peter Whiffin.

“Loafin’ ag’in, eh?” he snarled. “Expect to be supported in idleness, I
reckon! You ain’t done scarcely nothin’ since I hired that new barker.”

“Oh, I ain’t, eh?” Joe Rodgers’ eyes flashed angrily. “Oh, no; I ain’t
done nothin’ but work me arms an’ legs most off!”

“Light out!” commanded the manager.

“When I gits ready I will,” answered Joe, defiantly. “Hey, fellers, I
heard all that. So you’re the ones what Jumbo, I--I mean Dave told me
about? An’, say, he’s the bulliest feller in the whole world. Anybody
what could do what he done last night ought ter have a medal.”

“Permit me to introduce into your charmed circle the esteemed and
particular crony of Mr. David Brandon--Joseph Rodgers, Esquire,
water-carrier by special appointment to Oily Spudger’s Great Show,”
snickered Victor.

The boys greeted Joe politely.

“If the fat feller belongs to a bunch like this it’s most enough
to make me fire him,” growled the manager. “Have you watered them
elephants, Joe?”

“Sure I have.”

“And wiped off them cages?”

“Yep.”

“Well, you know what yer next job is. Git!”

“Don’t have to.”

Mr. Whiffin was both amazed and angry.

“It’s all the doin’s o’ that there new barker,” he declared,
emphatically. “He’s been fillin’ yer head full o’ cranky notions. Ye’re
gittin’ too big fer your place.”

“’Tain’t so!” Joe flung back, spitefully.

“I’ll look inter this here affair, an’ if that fat feller keeps
meddlin’ inter other people’s business I’ll hand him somethin’ what he
won’t never forgit.”

“A fine bit of gratitude for stopping the runaway elephants!” cried Tom.

“Mr. Whiffin is going to give you all free passes,” spoke up Victor,
loudly. “Step right over to the box office and get ’em!”

The manager glared at the crowd.

“If that’s what ye’re after, pass straight along,” he snarled. “I
wouldn’t want you in the show at fifty cents per. Like as not you’d
stampede the whole menagerie!”

The furious blast of the ten thousand dollar band starting up made
further conversation almost impossible. As though the music conveyed
some signal to the brain of Mr. Whiffin and his protégé, they
immediately started off, and, by the simple process of mingling with
the crowd, were soon lost to sight.

“The automobile hasn’t bumped anything,” laughed Bob, “but a whole lot
of things have bumped us.”

The boys, seeing that there would be no chance to interview the barker
for some time, concluded to take the car to the nearest garage.

“I always knew that Dave could do a lot of things,” said Tom, as he
climbed into the machine, “but who ever thought he could stand up
before a crowd and talk like that?”

“And didn’t he look perfectly stunning in that red coat and pretty
little cap?” remarked Charlie Blake, with a sly glance at each of the
others. “Aren’t we the brainy chaps on this trip, though?”

“A hulking big thing like that ought to be out working on a farm,”
roared Bob.

With a loud honk, honk, the motor car was off, and twenty minutes later
the four were back at the circus.

They found the lot in the grip of a frenzy of sound. Dave was hammering
on a gong, the ringing notes of which even overtopped the most
strenuous efforts of the hard-working band; and this medley of sound
was punctuated at intervals by the cries of venders, or the shrill
whoops of children.

“It’s a dandy show, all right,” said Victor.

“If Whiffin had gotten me to do the barking instead of Dave----” began
Tom. “Hey, what are you laughing about?” he demanded, suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing!” gurgled Victor. “Excuse me, but the thought of you
chinning to a crowd somehow gave me a fit of the laughs.”

“Then get over it. I was going to say that there would have been a fine
row if he’d tried any of his prattling on me.”

“My, oh my, isn’t that awful to think of?” snickered Victor.

Tom tossed his head scornfully, and was about to join in a rush for
the ticket wagon when Bob stopped him.

“I want to get a chance to speak to Dave first,” he said. “Plenty of
time yet, Tom.”

“The tent seems to be actually swallowing people,” objected Clifton.
“There won’t be any places left.”

“Only wish they were turning hundreds away,” exclaimed Charlie. “Then
we wouldn’t be able to go in.”

When the stampede to gain admission was over the band ceased playing
with remarkable promptness, and Dave as promptly resumed speaking.

It was clearly evident that those who failed to avail themselves of
the opportunity of seeing the great Spudger show on that particular
afternoon would be making one of the most amazing mistakes of their
lives. Dave almost said as much.

“Thank goodness we haven’t missed it,” said Bob, with a smile. “Oh,” he
turned abruptly at the sound of a voice--“you here again, Joe!”

“’Tain’t nobody else,” chuckled Joe.

“Mr. Rodgers looks like a living danger signal,” said Charlie, his
eyes scanning Joe’s flaming red vest.

The circus boy seemed to construe this as a great compliment. He
grinned complacently.

“You fellers is certainly all to the good,” he said, graciously. “An’,
say, isn’t Dave a Jim dandy?”

“Of course he is,” laughed Charlie. “How do you like circus life, Joe?”

“Not as much as I did afore I met Dave,” answered Joe. “He kinder
started me a-thinkin’. I ain’t got no eddication, an’ he says if I
don’t never begin I won’t have no chanc’t to get up in the band wagon.
An’, say”--the freckle-faced boy laughed--“I wish’t I could play music.”

“Why?” inquired Tom.

“’Cause them fellers has an easy job.”

“How so?”

“Oh, I’m wise to ’em. Often, when the leader weren’t a-lookin’, I’ve
seen ’em quit playin’--honest, I have. An’ when he gits his eyes on ’em
ag’in an’ waves that there club o’ hisn, they starts up like mad.”

“Deceitful rascals,” murmured Charlie, trying to stifle a suspicious
gurgle.

Within a short time the boys found their opportunity to speak to Dave.
They shook hands as heartily and their tongues wagged as rapidly as
though weeks had separated them. Making the best of the few minutes
which were at their disposal, enough was said to render the situation
clear all around.

They learned that Dave expected to be with Spudger’s until the next
day, and that he had written a letter to Captain Bunderley.

“I told him Vic and I would leave for Milwaukee just as soon as my work
was over,” explained the stout boy.

“Hooray!” cried Tom. “Then there is nothing for us to do but enjoy
ourselves.”

“An’ I’ll show you the best seats in the house,” added Joe. “Come on!”

Of course Tom was too dignified to show any visible effects of the
pleasing sensations which seized him as he entered the abode of pomp
and sawdust. He had never before seen so much of either.

As the performance was about to begin, Joe immediately conducted them
to the reserved seat section, where real chairs took the place of piles
of lumber.

“We haven’t stampeded the menagerie and it’s cost us only twenty-five
cents per,” laughed Bob.

Dave, minus his red coat and cap, soon joined them; and from their
point of vantage they witnessed the “Stupendous and Gorgeous Spectacle”
which Spudger always gave to his patrons.

After the show, when the crowds had departed, Dave took the crowd to
the small side tent and introduced them to “Little” Georgy, Zingar,
the Randolpho family and Ormond de Sylveste. The circus people all
expressed profound gratification at the meeting. The young giant was
particularly charmed.

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you’d have a job like mine some day,”
he remarked to Tom.

“If it comes to that I’ll remember Spudger’s,” grinned the high school
lad.

“We can’t have any fellows on our ball nine that measure over six feet
three inches,” said Blake.

“Ball nine--ball nine!” queried Joe. “What ball nine?”

“This tall Indian here has started one on paper,” put in Victor. “He’s
spoiled about a hundred perfectly good sheets. Why? Can you play?”

“Kin I play?” echoed Joe. “Well--some.”

“In the major league class, I suppose?”

Joe grinned.

“Here, here, gentlemen,” exclaimed Victor, “I hereby propose that the
managing director of Clifton’s great baseball nine immediately gets an
option on the services of one Joseph Rodgers, Esquire.”

“Oh, don’t I wish I could play ball and enjoy myself like other boys,”
sighed the young giant.

“But think how awful it would be when you had to slide for second
base,” laughed Victor.

“Wouldn’t I like to go to school an’ git on a team,” murmured Joe,
staring moodily at the ground.

“Stranger things have happened, Joe,” said Bob.

“It will never happen to me if Whiffin kin prevent it,” sniffed the
circus boy.

“Brace up, lad,” said Ormond de Sylveste, in a kindly tone. “At one
time I was poor and ignorant, too. But there is always a chance for
the most obscure to become the most prominent. I don’t wish to boast,
gentlemen, but I venture to say that in my own profession there are few
who dare assert their supremacy over me, and----”

“Say, is Bill Potts in there!” a disagreeable voice suddenly thundered.
“By Jingo, I thought so! Ketched ag’in! If that fat barker stays here
any longer there won’t be a man in the show workin’. I guess Joe’ll
expect to be President of the United States next. I don’t want no
idlin’ around this tent, understan’, an’----”

“A little politeness, sir!” expostulated the bareback rider, with
dignity.

“I never heard the beat o’ that,” exclaimed Whiffin. His voice
indicated great surprise. “Even Bill Potts is a-borrowin’ nerve from
the fat one. You want ter git out o’ them fancy clothes o’ yourn, an’
buckle down to some real work.”

For an instant it actually looked as if Ormond de Sylveste was about to
make some fiery retort, but, apparently changing his mind, he bowed to
his new acquaintances and strode moodily away, the picture of outraged
dignity.

“If you don’t take them there ‘stars’ down onc’t in a while yer
couldn’t live in the same tent with ’em, they’d git that uppish,” came
from Mr. Whiffin.

“Some allowances must be made for genius,” laughed Dave. “Come on,
fellows. I’m almost famished.”

“Be sure to come and see me again,” cried the treble voice of “Little”
Georgy.

Outside the tent, Dave led the way to the nearest restaurant with
remarkable speed.

“Tom,” he said, “when you become a great physician, if some of your
patients have no appetite advise them to take a two or three day course
of barking. Boys, I can eat twice as much as before.”

“I have always suspected where Brandon’s cash went,” chirped Victor.

After leaving the restaurant the boys wandered around town until it was
time for Dave’s duties to begin. Tom would have had no objection to
seeing another performance, but this idea receiving no encouragement
from the others, he proposed going to a hotel.

“I’ve got some letters to write to the fellows at school,” he said.

The boys found a hotel near by, and, later on in the evening, leaving
Tom hard at work scribbling, they strolled over to the circus grounds.

“Fellows,” laughed Dave, who had been looking for them, “I have resumed
my occupation of gentleman and scholar. My connection with Ollie
Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless Circus and Menagerie has unexpectedly
ended. Jack Gray, having recovered his voice, will in future speak from
the rostrum.”

“Well, it was a jolly good lark, anyway,” remarked Bob.

“How can you tear yourself away from Mister Joe Rodgers?” asked Victor.

“He’s a good little chap,” declared Dave, “and ought to amount to
something if he should have an opportunity. There doesn’t seem much
chance for him here, although Whiffin isn’t such a bad fellow when one
gets to understand him.”

By the gracious permission of Mr. Ollie Spudger, the boys were
permitted to enter the tent so that they might say good-bye to the
young giant.

“Little” Georgy seemed almost on the point of blubbering as he shook
hands. Joe Rodgers was soon found. Joe’s face wore a strange expression.

“So you are goin’ ter git, eh, fellows?” he remarked, slowly. “I’m
mighty glad I met this here bunch. Maybe I’ll see you ag’in some day.”

“And by that time Brandon might give you a job as his private
secretary,” laughed Victor.

When the crowd returned to the hotel they found that Tom’s literary
labors were not yet concluded. The others, however, having decided that
it was time to turn in, pen, ink and paper were promptly wrested from
him.

“If I don’t get some rest soon,” declared Dave, “I’ll be in danger of
going to sleep right here.”

Although this appeal was heeded, the task of awakening the historian
next morning proved to be one of heroic proportions.

“Oh ho!” he yawned, at last wearily dragging himself to his feet, in
answer to their repeated knocking. “All right, Bob! No; you needn’t
batter down the door. I’m coming directly.”

In spite of his objections breakfast was hurried through with unseemly
haste, and a quick start made for the garage.

There, they jumped into a machine looking as spick and span as though
it had just come from the salesroom.

“And this time I do hope we manage to reach Milwaukee,” said Victor.

“If Tom doesn’t get out of our sight we may,” laughed Charlie.

As the car whirled along the street Spudger’s tents were brought into
view again, but none of those whom they had met could be seen.

“Poor old Joe,” sighed Dave. “I’m afraid he’ll never get that chance he
wants so badly.”

With but a few vehicles on the long, straight road the motor car leaped
forward at a rate which caused the miles to slip by with astonishing
rapidity. Before the noon hour it rolled across the East Water Street
bridge, and soon stopped in front of the garage where it had been
previously left.

“Now we want to see Uncle Ralph the quickest ever!” exclaimed Victor,
flicking a few spots of mud from his clothes. “By George, it seems like
an age since I was on board that yacht.”

“A few more weeks of the same stuff would make you a strong, husky
chap,” said Tom, loftily.

“Like yourself, I suppose?” gurgled Victor.

As the boys trooped into the hotel, perhaps with a trifle more noise
and hilarity than was necessary, they heard a sonorous voice exclaim:

“Well, well; here you are, at last!”

Captain Bunderley, his weather-beaten face wreathed in smiles, stamped
forward. He seized Victor Collins’ hand.

“I’ve never seen you looking better, lad!” he said. “I want to hear all
about those wonderful experiences you’ve been having. Traveling with
a circus, eh? And, Bob, I’d like to know how you managed to find each
other.”

He led the way to the reception room, motioned them to seats and
selected a divan on which to place his own heavy form.

“Sail ahead,” he commanded. “No tacking, now; run right before the
wind.”

Upon Dave fell the rôle of principal spokesman. The stout boy’s broad
smile grew broader as he proceeded. Captain Bunderley’s deep-throated
laughter boomed out at frequent intervals.

“Capital--capital! You’ll do, my boy!” he exclaimed. “’Pon my word, you
ought to succeed in life.”

“Not even an aeroplane could keep him down!” cried Tom.

Bob Somers, too, had a great deal to say, and by lunch time Uncle Ralph
had learned everything worth knowing and much else besides.

Finally he rose to his feet.

“I have a little business to attend to this afternoon, so we’ll get
something to eat at once,” he said.

“I was just about to suggest it myself,” murmured Dave.

The dining-room, with its ornate columns and rich decorations of the
Louis XV period, was a very attractive-looking place. It suited Dave’s
artistic eye to a nicety. A sigh of contentment came from his lips as
he took a seat at a table by the window.

Course after course was placed before them, and the coffee stage of
the proceedings had just arrived when the sound of loud voices in the
corridor attracted general attention.

“Don’t go in there, boy,” exclaimed a commanding voice. “Get right out
of this hotel!”

“I ain’t goin’ to, I tells yer. I know this is the place ’cause he told
me he was comin’ here hisself.”

“There’s some mistake, boy; none of our guests could possibly want to
see you.”

“That’s where you’re foolin’ yerself. The clerk says he’s in the eatin’
parlor. I’ll wait outside while you goes in an’ looks around. He’s a
big fat feller with a round face.”

“You’re the most impudent little rooster I’ve ever met. I’ll do nothing
of the sort.”

“Then I’ll do it myself.”

There was the sound of a struggle.

“Grab him, Richards!” bawled the same loud voice. “Quick!”

Following this came a snort of indignation and disgust, and the eyes
of every one in the room, focused on the doorway, saw a stocky,
freckle-faced boy swinging recklessly into the room, with the
faultlessly-dressed manager close at his heels.

“Come back!” ordered the latter, angrily.

“Not on yer life! I sees him. There he is by the winder. Hello, Dave!”

Yes--actually--Joe Rodgers, flaming red vest, big brass buttons and
all, had invaded the fashionable dining-room of a fashionable hotel,
and, unabashed by his surroundings or by the looks on the faces of the
horrified guests and waiters, was steering as straight a course as
he could for the table at which Captain Bunderley and the boys were
seated.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE ARM OF THE LAW


“I know’d I’d see ’im!” cried Joe, exultingly. “I know’d it! That chump
a-chasin’ me says ter git, but I up an’ comes in jist the same.”

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen!” exclaimed the agitated manager. “I
assure you that it is not our fault; you see, the young----”

“It’s all right, sir!” boomed Captain Bunderley.

“Oh,--oh!” gasped the manager. “I’m gratified to hear it.”

Red-faced and flustered he promptly turned away.

Joe, with as little ceremony as though he was in the menagerie tent,
drew up a chair, plumped himself down upon it and laid his cap across
one knee. Then, having stared at the captain with solemn earnestness
for a moment, blurted out:

“Dave, I’ve shook Whiffin!”

“What! Left the show?” cried the historian. “You don’t mean it?”

“Yes; I sure have, Dave.”

“Well, this is a big surprise, all right,” quoth Tom.

“It isn’t to me,” giggled Victor. “I had an idea last night that Dave’s
particular crony was up to something desperate.”

“I presume this is the boy you told me about?” broke in Captain
Bunderley.

“Yes, sir. Permit me to formally introduce Mr. Joseph Rodgers, of
Iowa,” laughed Victor.

“What made you leave the show?” asked the captain.

“Him!”

Joe’s brown finger pointed straight toward Dave Brandon.

“I made you leave?” cried Dave. “How?”

“’Cause, when I meets a feller what’s got learnin’ like you, I couldn’t
stan’ it no longer. I wants ter be somethin’.”

Captain Bunderley was interested.

“Joe, your desire to rise is commendable,” he exclaimed, heartily.
“Have you ever spoken to Mr. Whiffin about it?”

“I begins to talk to ’im this mornin’, an’ he ups an’ gits riled ter
beat the band. ‘I wish’t I’d never laid eyes on that fat feller,’ says
he. ‘Brandon’s been puttin’ all them fool notions inter your head.’
‘Look ’ere, Whiffin,’ says I, ‘don’t you never say nothin’ ag’in ’im;
he’s the whitest chap I ever see.’”

“So I have a champion at last,” chuckled Dave.

“Then Whiffin hollers fer me ter git back ter work or he’d fetch me
a good one on the ear. That makes me most bile over--him--Whiffin,
talkin’ like that! So I skips right out.”

“How’d you get here--board a fast freight?” inquired Victor.

“I did not. I stepped inter a real car, with real winders an’ real
seats, an’ I’ve got seventy-five cents left.”

“Goodness, what a risk--floating around in a real city with that much
real money in your pocket!” said Victor.

Joe’s thoughts were on something else.

“Gee, I can most see Whiffin hollerin’ his way around the show an’
askin’ everybody if they’ve seen that young scamp, Joe! My, I’ll bet
he’s so mad he’s clean forgot that quarter he give to Dave the other
night.”

“What do you expect to do in Milwaukee?” asked Captain Bunderley.

“Do!” echoed Joe, rather blankly. “I dunno!” Thoughtfully, he ran his
fingers through his bushy hair. “I--I--kinder thought as how Dave could
tell me.”

“Has Mr. Whiffin any claim on your services?”

“Nix; he certainly ain’t,” asserted Joe, with considerable emphasis.

“Is the circus coming here?”

“Yes, sir! Day after to-morrow.”

“Well, I’ll look after you till then.” Uncle Ralph beckoned to a
waiter. “What will you have to eat, Joe?”

“Eat! Me eat in a--a--place like this?” stammered Joe, for the first
time abashed.

“Certainly! Why not? Order just what you please.”

Joe stared from one to another as though he feared that his ears were
deceiving him. Then his eyes fell on the waiter, whose professional
dignity was sadly shocked by the presence before him of such an uncouth
specimen.

“Gimme a great big hunk o’ bread an’ cheese an’ a piece o’ real apple
pie, with no skimpin’ o’ the apples, neither,” he said, “an’ a glass o’
water twic’t. Thankin’ you kindly, mister; I won’t do nothin’ to that
pile o’ grub when it comes.”

“And you may add to that order plenty of roast beef and potatoes,”
added the captain. “I have an idea that our friend has a famous
appetite.”

Joe Rodgers had never really lived until that afternoon. He seemed to
be fairly lifted out of himself, and a side of life was revealed which
he had never before dreamed could exist.

“Honest, Dave,” he declared emphatically, “I can’t never go back to
Spudger’s.”

“We’ll see if anything can be done to help you,” said Dave,
encouragingly. “But you ought not to have run away. Anyhow, fellows, I
propose that we invite Joe to see the sights of Milwaukee from a seat
in the motor car.”

Even Victor Collins made no objection. He was beginning to realize that
character counts for more than appearance, and that the passport to
respectable society consists of something besides good clothes.

Presently, leaving Captain Bunderley in the reading room, the boys
walked briskly out upon the street.

At the garage Joe became immensely interested in the automobile.

“It’s the finest I ever see,” he cried, admiringly. “Looks most too
good to use.”

“Climb in, Joe,” commanded Bob.

He sprang to his place in the driver’s seat, pushed the button on the
dash, and, immediately, the thunderous din of the motor echoed from
every side and corner of the big interior.

“You’ve got ter know somethin’ to be an engineer of one o’ these
things,” exclaimed Joe. “Still, I wouldn’t be a bit skeered to try my
hand at drivin’.”

“There is nothing like a motor car to chase dull care away,” said Dave,
who was reclining at ease on the rear cushions. “Let’s see: what does
Bryant say----?”

“Nothing about motor cars, that’s quite sure,” laughed Bob, as the
wheels began to revolve.

[Illustration: HE SPRANG TO HIS PLACE]

Many vehicles and pedestrians were about, and warning blasts of the
horn were often sounded. But the boys, not being in any particular
hurry, gave Chauffeur Somers an easy job, following whichever streets
their fancy dictated.

“This is rippin’!” cried Joe, enthusiastically. “Feels jist like
gittin’ boosted along without nothin’ doin’ it.”

The car slowly rolled through the business section, giving them
interesting glimpses of attractive stores and windows filled with
all sorts of goods. They crossed and recrossed the Milwaukee River,
and, finally, on one of the more quiet streets, were bowling steadily
along when the actions of a certain policeman attracted Bob Somers’
attention. He was standing by the curb with his eyes eagerly fixed on
the approaching car.

“Hey there,” came a loud command. “Stop!”

“Is he speaking to us?” inquired Bob, turning to his companions with
a puzzled look. He glanced about, and, seeing no other vehicles near,
answered his own question. “Yes, he certainly is.”

“Have we busted any traffic regulations, I wonder?” asked Charlie.

“Maybe it’s ’cause we haven’t got no cow-catcher,” said Joe, with a
grin.

“Hey there--stop!”

The man in uniform was stepping out into the street, the significant
movement of his arm indicating an authority not to be questioned.

“Ha, ha--somebody’s pinched--jugged!” cried Joe. “Is this the feller
you want?” His finger dug sharply into Victor Collins’ ribs. “I’ll help
you tote him along.”

“I’d like to know what all this means!” exclaimed Tom, in his most
manly tones.

Bob Somers smilingly awaited an explanation.

The policeman, looking searchingly at each in turn, took from his
pocket a memorandum book. Then, glancing over the pages, gave a grunt
of approval.

“Correct, all right. Descriptions and license number correspond.”

This information, while interesting, did not enlighten the boys as to
the meaning of his strange action.

“Would you have any objection to telling us why we’ve been stopped?”
drawled Dave, from the rear.

“I don’t think we ought to stand for anything like this,” growled Tom,
bristling up in a very threatening fashion.

“Which one o’ ’em shall I chuck out o’ the car for yer?” inquired Joe.
“You kin take any but the fat feller.”

The officer glanced at him and wagged his head knowingly.

“The police station is just around the corner, boys,” he answered,
quietly. “I reckon the sergeant will tell you what it’s all about.”

“The idea! Just listen to that!” stormed Tom. “I’d demand an
explanation right here, Bob Somers. Don’t let those spokes move even as
much as half an inch.”

“If there’s any fightin’ to be done I’m right here to help you,”
laughed Joe.

Dave Brandon smiled languidly.

“In spite of ourselves, we seem destined to have fame pushed upon us,”
he exclaimed. “It looks as though something is rocking the pedestal.”

“We are too polite not to accept such a pressing invitation,” grinned
Bob Somers.

“All the same, I’ll bet we can sue somebody for this!” cried Victor.
“My father’s best friend is a United States senator, and he----”

A series of crisp, vibrating notes from the motor drowned his voice.
The car moved forward, and, always under the watchful eye of the law,
as represented in the person of the man in uniform, chugged its way
around the corner, to presently come to a stop before a building of a
dark, unpleasantly grim appearance.

“We know where we’re going, and we’re on our way!” cried Dave. “All of
us wanted in there, officer?”

“Oh, yes. We won’t steal your car,” grinned the policeman. “Kindly step
out.”

They followed the officer up a broad flight of stone steps, pushed past
a pair of swinging doors and entered a large square room. At one end
two desks stood on a platform with an ornamental railing in front.

Several policemen lounging on a bench looked up with interest as the
crowd marched across the floor. A large, stout man, with iron gray
hair and mustache sitting behind one of the desks glanced inquiringly
at the officer.

“These are the boys mentioned in the telegram, sergeant,” explained the
policeman. “Description of the one that’s wanted just fits.”

He waved his hand toward Joe Rodgers.

“Me--me?” cried Joe. Then an inkling of the true situation for the
first time dawned upon him. “Oh, Dave, I’m ketched!” he exclaimed,
almost pitifully. “Whiffin’s done it. I might have know’d he would! But
I ain’t never goin’ back--perlice, or no perlice,” he added.

Joe, blank with despair, as new-found hopes were shaken, stared moodily
at the floor.

“Now I suppose you’ll have to get a hundred thousand dollars bail,
Rodgers,” said Victor. “Of course, this is one of the most important
cases of the year.”

“Well, what’s he goin’ to do with me?” demanded Joe. “I’m goin’ ter
stand up for me rights.”

“You must be detained until the arrival of the complainant”--the
sergeant glanced at a paper in his hand--“Peter Whiffin. You look like
a respectable crowd of boys,” he added, taking a careful observation of
the faces before him.

“I’ve never pinched a better lot,” agreed the policeman.

“Sergeant, may I have the use of your ’phone for a moment?” spoke up
Dave.

“Certainly!” answered the official.

In a short time Dave, his mouth at the transmitter, was explaining
matters to Captain Bunderley.

“Says he’ll be over here within an hour,” he announced, hanging up the
receiver. “No; he didn’t seem surprised, Bob. I guess the captain is
too old to be surprised at anything.”

The crowd took seats on a bench, their lively conversation soon helping
to cheer up the dejected Joe Rodgers. But even then he found the long
wait trying to his nerves.

At length Uncle Ralph tramped noisily into the room.

“It just shows how careful one must be in forming new acquaintances,
boys,” he chuckled. “I’ve only known you for a few days--yet here I
find myself in a police station, and all on your account. What’s to be
done, sergeant, with such a reckless lot?”

“That’s a hard one to answer,” grinned the official.

“Well, now, let’s get right down to business. When will Mr. Whiffin be
here? I’ve become interested in this boy, sergeant, and I don’t propose
to let all the talking be on one side.”

“By Jingo, if you’ll only stand up for me, mister, I’ll never forgit
it!” cried Joe.

“I hope you’re going to make a base hit, Rodgers,” laughed Tom.

“Mr. Whiffin will be here to-morrow morning,” explained the sergeant.
“Until then the boy will have to remain with us.”

“And I’ll be here, too, with this strong-arm squad,” laughed the
captain, “ready to face the manager of Spudger’s Peerless show.”




CHAPTER XXIV

THE JUDGE INTERFERES


The gloomy weather was over at last. Puddles and pools were fast
drying up in the warmth of pleasant sunshine, while a balmy breeze had
replaced the blustery wind.

“Say, Bob Somers,” remarked Victor Collins, as all were on their way to
the police station next morning, “didn’t I hear you ’phoning to some
one last night?”

“Sure thing, Vic.”

“Who was it?”

“You may know before the morning is over.”

“Oh, come now, Somers, tell me.”

“No; not a word, Vic,” answered Bob, smilingly.

The large, square room in the police station looked very differently
from the way it had on the afternoon before. Already it contained a
large number of people, and in the buzz of conversation, the light
footfalls, and the appearance of a solemn magistrate’s clerk poring
over a great ledger, there was something which filled those whose
nerves were not of the strongest with a curious feeling of restraint.

As each new arrival entered the room tongues were stilled for the
instant, for the magistrate was due to arrive.

Joe Rodgers, in spite of the boys’ support and encouragement, lacked
the air of rugged bravado which usually characterized him.

“I don’t wanter go back to Whiffin, fellers,” he wailed, continually.
“But I know that he’s goin’ to put up an awful holler, ’cause when I
gits down to work I kin do a turrible lot.”

“Brace up, Joe,” said Dave. “You are not back in the circus yet.”

Suddenly the sound of voices and footsteps at the door much louder than
any which had come before caused that particular part of the room to
become the target of many eyes.

A large, portly man entered and directed his footsteps straight toward
the desk behind the railing. This, and the hush which immediately
ensued, proclaimed him to be the magistrate. Closely following came
Peter Whiffin and Mr. Ollie Spudger.

The former’s eyes were instantly roving about the room, and his keen
gaze soon picked out from the throng the forms of Joe Rodgers and his
friends.

“There he is, Spudger!” he exclaimed, in a voice which rang through
the room with appalling distinctness. “He runned away, all right, but
he didn’t git very far. Here, you, boy”--he advanced, with his finger
poised threateningly in the air--“it’s back to the canvas tents for
you. Come right along.”

“I ain’t goin’ to!” growled Joe.

“Uncle Ralph, permit me to introduce Mr. Whiffin, of somewhere,”
chirped Victor Collins.

The circus manager glared at the burly skipper.

“Who are you?” he demanded, roughly. “What does this mean?”

Captain Bunderley was disposed to be diplomatic.

“I’m here in the interests of this boy, Mr. Whiffin,” he said, politely.

“Well, I can’t see that it’s any of your affair.”

“Decidedly not!” seconded Mr. Spudger.

“This here fat Brandon filled his head chuck full of nonsense, an’, as
if that weren’t bad enough, he gits him to actually run away--run away
from his best friend. Why, I could have the law on ’im!”

“I had nothing to do with it, Mr. Whiffin,” answered Dave.

“Oh, cut it out, now. Yer can’t fool me. Yer took ’im right along in
the automobile. I know yer did.”

“’Tain’t nothin’ of the sort, Whiffin!” cried Joe. “I rid on the train.
An’ I kin prove it.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Whiffin. In spite of his suspicions, there was
something in Joe’s earnest manner which impelled him to accept his
words as the truth. “What! An’ you wasted good money that way? It’s
perfectly outrageous, that’s what it is.”

“Order--order!”

A gavel banged with explosive force against the desk. The magistrate
was speaking, and in such a tone that even Mr. Whiffin felt called upon
to moderate his voice.

While the hearings went on, he pleaded, threatened and expostulated
with Joe, curtly declining to listen to any of Uncle Ralph’s
suggestions. And every argument which the manager advanced Joe, who
stood backed up against the wall, met with this reply:

“Naw, I ain’t a-goin’ ter do it!”

“Well, then you’ll go right up before the magistrate,” declared Mr.
Whiffin. “I reckon you’ll listen to him, all right.”

“It’s the only thing that will put any sense into his head,” agreed Mr.
Spudger.

But even this prospect did not make Joe waver.

“I’ve got a tongue in me head, an’ kin use it,” he exclaimed, defiantly.

“Joseph Rodgers!”

This name called out in the monotonous tones of the clerk finally
brought all before the rail.

“Where is the complainant, Peter Whiffin?” asked the magistrate.

“Right here,” answered the manager.

“Has this matter been settled? That’s the boy, I suppose? Is he your
ward?”

“I’m jist as much his guardeen as if it had been writ on paper,”
asserted Peter Whiffin, vigorously. “I’ve got a letter from his uncle
to show how things stand. An’, besides, I’ve given ’im his grub an’
clothes for years.”

“An’ ain’t I worked an’ worked until me hands was blistered to pieces?”
screeched Joe.

“I think there ought to be no difficulty in coming to some amicable
agreement about the boy,” broke in Captain Bunderley. “We do not wish
to infringe on any one’s rights, but all of us think that his future
should be given some consideration. My young friend here”--he indicated
Dave--“will guarantee to find him work in his home town, so that he
will have an opportunity to attend school.”

“By gum!” cried Joe, his eyes sparkling, “jist listen to that!”

“An’ I kin say there’s nothin’ doin’,” said Mr. Whiffin, explosively.

“Produce that letter you spoke about,” returned the magistrate.

“Here it is,” said Mr. Whiffin.

The official’s eyes ran over the contents.

“All it seems to show is that the boy’s guardian knows he is with you,”
he said, slowly. “But, still, I hardly think that I have any authority
to take him from under your care and protection.”

The expression on Joe Rodgers’ face, which a moment before had been so
full of hope, changed to one of blank despair.

“Have you been ill-treated, Joe?” asked the magistrate, in kindly tones.

“No, sir; I ain’t.”

“What’s your complaint, then?”

“If I stays with ’im I won’t never have no chanc’t to git an
eddication, an’----”

“That is a pity. But it is not enough to justify me in taking any
action. Perhaps you may be able to make some arrangement with Mr.
Whiffin so that you can go to school in the winter.”

“Your Honor, I have a word to say about this case.”

A strong, clear voice attracted the attention of every one in the court
room. They saw a tall, commanding-looking man step before the rail; and
they also saw the magistrate stare at him with an air of bewilderment.

“Judge Hampton!” he stammered.

The former jurist nodded.

“I appear before you as the representative of Joe Rodgers.”

“And now I know who the big Indian was ’phoning to last night,” said
Victor, in a loud whisper.

“Gee, that’s the time Bob made a safe hit,” murmured Tom.

Mr. Whiffin’s face expressed a comical degree of bewilderment.

“What--what?” he gasped. “I’d like to know what right you have to
meddle in this case!”

“Here’s a letter which Mr. Whiffin received from the boy’s uncle,” said
the magistrate, handing the missive to the former jurist.

There was a moment of silence while Judge Hampton was reading it.

“You are in a pretty poor position, sir,” he said, looking up from the
sheet and addressing Mr. Whiffin. “This amounts to nothing. The duties
and responsibilities of guardianship cannot be so lightly thrust into
another’s hands by a relative.”

Mr. Whiffin glared savagely.

“I tell you I won’t stand for anything like this!” he cried. “Judge or
no judge, I have my rights.”

“And I’ll back you up to the limit,” said Mr. Spudger, who could
see, in the way events were shaping themselves, that the circus was
in danger of losing the services of one who had been trained in the
business.

“I feel that the advantages which this boy may gain will so far offset
any mere personal loss to Mr. Whiffin that I must ask your Honor
to parole Joe Rodgers into the care of Captain Bunderley until his
relatives can be communicated with.”

“Request granted!” exclaimed the magistrate.

Joe, highly delighted, grasped Dave Brandon by the arm.

“Dave,” he said, huskily, “you’re the best feller in the whole world.”




CHAPTER XXV

JOE’S CHANCE


Captain Bunderley, assuming charge of the Joe Rodgers case, a cause
celebre on account of Judge Hampton’s participation in it, within a few
days had received the following letter from a small village in Iowa:

  “DEAR SIR:--

  “In regards to Joe Rodgers, my wife says if you can do better for him
  than Mr. Whiffin, and he can get some education, take the kid, and
  welcome. I guess he don’t owe Whiffin nothing.

  “Maybe Joe ought to have a chance, as you say. But circumstances
  didn’t allow me to keep him, and knocking around the world ain’t good
  for a boy.

  “Hoping that when he learns to write he’ll send me a letter, I am,

                                              “Respectfully yours,
                                                         “BEN HANKERSON.

  “P. S. Of course I’ll expect to hear straight ahead how he’s getting
  along.”

That same afternoon all parties concerned met in the magistrate’s
private office. Mr. Whiffin’s bellicose air had somewhat subsided,
partly due to the fact that he had consulted a lawyer and received no
encouragement.

“If I knew that the fat feller had made him run away I’d fight the case
to the end,” he confided to Mr. Spudger. “But, bein’ as the kid says
he didn’t--an’ he’s pretty straight goods regardin’ the truth--I guess
I’ll have to pass him up.”

“And, after all, Whiffin,” said Spudger, reflectively, “the boy will
get the chance he wants.”

“He sure could never make no animal tamer nor performer, an’ he ain’t
got the face for a ringmaster,” said Peter Whiffin. “No; it would be
the big wagon and long drives for him. Besides, the show business ain’t
what it used ter be.”

“There ain’t nothin’ what is,” said Mr. Spudger. “An’ I guess they said
the same thing a hundred years ago.”

Judge Hampton had been quietly consulting with the magistrate and
Captain Bunderley. Bluff and hearty, Captain Bunderley’s part in the
conference had not been quiet.

“It will be the best thing in the world for the boy,” he said. “He has
strength and ambition; and those are the only two things an American
boy needs to make him a success in life.”

“Mr. Whiffin”--the former judge turned toward the showman--“our
proposal is this: work will be found for Joe at Kingswood, Wisconsin,
and he will be given an opportunity to attend school. You, as a man of
the world, must know that this is the best thing to do.”

“I can’t fight ag’in a dozen,” answered Mr. Whiffin. “An’ I know that
the boy’s head will be so turned after all this fuss over him that he’d
never do a lick o’ work right ag’in.”

“By gum, I can’t hardly believe that sich good luck has come to me,”
said Joe.

“You kin begin to believe it right now,” remarked Mr. Spudger. “An’
don’t never forgit that you owe everything to Whiffin an’ me; because
if you hadn’t been with the show this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Yes, that’s quite true,” assented Captain Bunderley. “You do owe them
a great deal. Shake hands with your former employers, Joe. On such an
auspicious occasion for you there must be no ill-feeling.”

“That’s right,” assented Joe, heartily.

“I ain’t got none--not a bit of it,” said Mr. Peter Whiffin, extending
two bony fingers. “What riled me at first was to think that Brandon
should have inweigled him inter running off.”

“An’ Joe beating it without so much as leavin’ a card of regrets,”
growled Mr. Spudger.

“But as it’s all for the boy’s good, I’m game. Good luck, Joe.”

“Whiffin, you’re all right, twic’t!” exclaimed Joe Rodgers. “You’ll
find I’m goin’ to amount to somethin’, an’ we’ll always be frens.”

Yes, Joe Rodgers’ chance had come at last. Through his fortunate
meeting with Dave Brandon he would be able to gratify his ambition to
go to school.

“And I’m going to keep an eye on you,” exclaimed Captain Bunderley,
when they had taken leave of Judge Hampton and the circus men. “Before
many months are over you’ll find me turning up at the school. And if I
don’t hear a good account of you there’ll be trouble.”

“And just to think,” remarked Dave, reflectively, “that to-morrow we’ll
be leaving for our home in Kingswood! Seems funny, Bob, but I thought
this part of our trip would only add a few pages to my history. But----”

“It means a thousand, at least,” broke in Tom, with a laugh. “When it’s
finished it’ll be as long as an encyclopedia, and lots more exciting.”

The boys felt rather sober when the time came next morning to say
good-bye to Captain Bunderley and Victor Collins. Each had taken a
great fancy to the bluff old skipper, and, strangely enough, Victor
seemed to have become a very different sort of a boy from the one who
had begun the trip with them.

“Say, fellows,” he remarked, as he shook hands warmly with Bob Somers,
“you can count on seeing me again. I’m kind of curious to take a look
at that high school. I’ve found that you’re the kind of chaps who
improve on acquaintance. Dave is certainly a winner.”

“We’ll be delighted to see you, Vic,” returned Bob. “And perhaps
you’ll find that Kingswood isn’t such a slow place, after all.”

As long as the crowd was within sight of the hotel they saw Victor
standing on the steps waving his hand.

“The worst of traveling around like this,” said Tom, “is that you meet
a lot of fellows, and just as soon as you get to like them to beat the
band you have to say good-bye.”

“Yes, I noticed you liked Victor well enough at one time to want to hit
him on the eye,” exclaimed Blake. And this remark Tom passed by with
haughty silence.

Once more they were at the garage; and once more they jumped into the
car. The blasts of the horn which had grown so familiar to their ears
again warned the passers-by of their approach.

On the outskirts of the city, Tom, who was sitting behind Dave, touched
the stout boy on the shoulder.

“Look at Blake,” he exclaimed, in a low tone. “Honest--being with this
crowd has certainly done him a lot of good.”

The usually timid “grind” had exchanged places with Bob Somers and was
actually driving the car at a good clip along a street which was by
no means deserted. And, more than that, Blake looked as unconcerned as
though handling a big touring car was the easiest thing in the world.

“A few more months,” went on Tom, loftily, “and that yellow streak some
of the boys talked about couldn’t be found with a microscope.”

“That’s so,” admitted Dave. “All Charlie needs is a bit of
encouragement, and he will be a mighty useful member of our ball team.
What were you saying, Joe?”

“That I jist feel like yelling for all I’m worth.”

“Please don’t do it now,” laughed Dave. “I’m most uncommonly sleepy,
and this delightful motion is calling me to the land of nod.”

“Make the most of it, Dave,” cried Bob, from the front seat, “for the
Rambler Club’s motor car is taking us nearer and nearer to the place
where mighty little nodding can be done.”

“I know it,” drawled the stout boy, “and I shall assert my rights.”

In spite of Dave’s admonition Joe could not restrain a joyous shout.

And it was astonishing how that reckless Charlie Blake increased his
speed after they had turned into a long, straight country road. Many a
person stopped to look after the flying car, which kept steadily on and
on until lost to view in the distance.


  Other Stories in this Series are:

  THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP
  THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS
  THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH
  THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S GOLD MINE
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S AEROPLANE
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSE-BOAT
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S BALL NINE




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.



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