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.”
“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.