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.
“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.