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?”
“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.