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.