The Rambler Club's motor car
Date: 2022-07-05T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery and detective stories; Automobile travel -- Juvenile fiction; Chicago (Ill.) -- Juvenile fiction; Boys -- Societies and clubs -- Juvenile fiction; Wisconsin -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Rambler Club's motor car

Author: W. Crispin Sheppard

Release date: July 5, 2022 [eBook #68459]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Penn Publishing Company

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 ***

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

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’——”

“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.

“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——”

“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.

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:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

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Table of Contents

- The Rambler Club’s Motor Car
- Introduction
- Contents
- Illustrations
- CHAPTER I OFF TO WISCONSIN
- CHAPTER II THE FIRST LAP
- CHAPTER III THE “FEARLESS”
- CHAPTER IV THE CIRCUS
- CHAPTER V GEORGY, THE GIANT
- CHAPTER VI JOE RODGERS
- CHAPTER VII DESERTED
- CHAPTER VIII TOM AT THE WHEEL
- CHAPTER IX SPEEDING
- CHAPTER X THE CONSTABLE
- CHAPTER XI GETTING A JOB
- CHAPTER XII THE NEW BARKER
- CHAPTER XIII UNDER THE BIG TOP
- CHAPTER XIV THE WHALEBACK
- CHAPTER XV AN UNEXPECTED VOYAGE
- CHAPTER XVI TOM SCORES
- CHAPTER XVII ELEPHANTS
- CHAPTER XVIII A ROUGH TRIP
- CHAPTER XIX DAVE DOES SOME RIDING
- CHAPTER XX VIC TURNS UP
- CHAPTER XXI EXPLANATIONS
- CHAPTER XXII DAVE RESIGNS
- CHAPTER XXIII THE ARM OF THE LAW
- CHAPTER XXIV THE JUDGE INTERFERES
- CHAPTER XXV JOE’S CHANCE
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE