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!”