THE crisp staccato notes of the motor suddenly drowned the sound of his voice. From the exhaust poured a bluish haze of gasoline vapor. The car apparently became vibrant with life and energy. Then, as the rapid-fire roar quickly lessened to a low musical drone, Bob Somers threw in the clutch.
In the midst of a chorus of good-byes, the motor car began to glide smoothly away, and, upon looking back, the boys saw the lady at the window waving her handkerchief.
“Oh, isn’t this just stunning!” cried Victor. “Hit it up, Somers.”
Row after row of residences seemed to be drawn swiftly toward them and sent slipping behind. At each street crossing Bob slowed up, allowing the boys momentary views of Lake Michigan, only a short distance away.
The few vehicles and pedestrians about appeared as mere crawling things whenever the high-powered car leaped forward in obedience to the summons of its master’s hand.
Victor Collins experienced a delightful sense of ease and comfort as he watched the passing show with all the zest and interest that novelty often brings.
“Go it, Somers, go it!” he urged. “Whoop it up like sixty!”
“Restraint and caution should ever be the chauffeur’s watchword,” drawled Dave.
“That’s what I think, too,” approved Charlie.
“In cities they always have so many laws to bother a chap,” grumbled Tom. “Why, when we were in Wyoming——”
“Oh, forget it, son,” interrupted Victor. “This beats all your old cowboy business to pieces.”
The residential section of Michigan Avenue had been passed. The motor car was now swinging along by the side of Grant Park. Out over the lake they could see that the stiff breeze was kicking up the water into choppy waves and tossing about several small boats whose sails cut crisply white against the background. The far-reaching stretch of water, in the early morning light, became lost in a scintillating haze which dazzled the eye.
“The clouds are piling up,” remarked Dave. “I guess we’ll have some stormy weather soon.”
A succession of views passed so rapidly that the eye could take in only their salient features. Almost before they realized it the boys were being carried across the Chicago River. One look showed them an insignificant tug struggling valiantly with a huge, clumsy barge, a myriad of masts, a kaleidoscopic effect of hulls, docks and buildings, with here and there clouds of smoke and steam. Then all was whirled behind them.
“What time shall we get to Kenosha, Somers?” demanded Victor.
“About one o’clock, if everything goes well,” answered Bob.
He put on his goggles, for occasionally the breeze brought with it a shower of flying particles.
“Good! Then we can slip over to Uncle Ralph’s motor yacht. Did you speak, sir?”
“I did,” answered Tom, with dignity. “I said it might be a good idea for the bunch to stop over night at Kenosha.”
“They might stand for you that long,” grinned Victor.
“The question is: can we stand for it?”
“Maybe we’ll see you at Milwaukee,” broke in Charlie. “Too bad, Vic, you’re not going to stick with us all the way. You’d never catch me going on any yacht.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t swim.”
“Well, Uncle Ralph wouldn’t expect you to swim. Anyway, you ought to be ashamed to admit it.”
“Bet you can’t, either.”
“Your remark is irrelevant, as the lawyers say,” laughed Victor. “I never yet felt a bit nervous in the water.”
“Where did you ever paddle about, I’d like to know?”
“Oh, in a tub.”
“Fellows, we’re coming to Lincoln Park, one of the finest in Chicago,” laughed Charlie.
“Nothing like having your own sightseeing car,” observed Dave.
“I guess the people around here think they are seeing sights,” giggled Victor. “With those glasses on, Somers, you look like the speed king himself. Just wait till I get my hands on the throttle—if there’s a mile of straight road in front I’ll drive her up to sixty.”
“Huh! This car has to go all the way to Wisconsin,” sniffed Tom. “We don’t want to have to telegraph any scrap iron dealer to hurry out and shovel up the pieces—eh, Bob?”
“Eh, Bob!” repeated Victor, “eh, Bob! How many times a day do you get that off? The great chauffeur and his brave passenger, Clifton! Let Charlie take the helm. He’ll drive slowly enough to suit you.”
Tom’s eyes gleamed ominously.
“Talking about speed! Why, in Wyoming, where we didn’t have any old laws to think about——”
“Oh, why is Wyoming!” chuckled Victor. “What a state it must be to have no laws.”
“Oh ho, this park is a refreshing sight,” broke in Dave—“a little oasis in the midst of mortar, brick and stone. Slow up a bit, Bob, so that we may have a better chance to enjoy the contemplation of nature.”
“You talk like a botany book, Brandon,” grunted Victor. “See here, Somers!”
“Well?”
“Never better, thank you. Let me try my hand at driving?”
Victor’s tone indicated an expectation that his wishes would be acceded to without objection. At home he had been so long accustomed to having his own way that submission to his imperious demands had come to be expected as a matter of course.
Charlie Blake looked alarmed.
“Going to do it, Bob?” he asked.
“Of course he’s going to do it,” grinned Victor, satirically. “Aren’t you, Bob?”
“Not until we get eighty-six miles from nowhere,” Tom put in.
“I hardly think so, Vic,” answered Bob, good-naturedly.
Victor’s expression indicated his displeasure.
“All right then—I’ll let it go now; but just wait till we get out in the open country,” he grumbled.
“There’s a coolness in the air,” remarked Tom.
He looked quizzically toward Victor.
“A storm is brewing,” said Dave, absent-mindedly.
Presently the park was left behind. On and on sped the motor car. There was so much to see and so little time to see it in that the brain of each lad held only a confused impression of many buildings, of trees and grassy stretches, and shining patches of lake.
“What place is this we are coming to?” cried Tom, at length.
“Evanston,” answered Victor.
Some of the citizens were mildly astonished to see a great touring car containing five lads whirling through the town.
“Hi, hi! catch on to the joy riders!” yelled a small boy. “Where’d you get it?”
“No time to answer questions, sonny,” screeched Victor. “This is the lightning express, the speediest wagon in the state, with Somers, the slow-speed wizard, at the throttle. Whoop-la!”
Evanston was quickly left behind. Then came a succession of small towns along the lake front. The sky was now almost entirely overcast. Near the horizon rested a mass of clouds of a murky, yellowish hue which seemed to impart to the distant water some of its own threatening aspect.
At Waukegan the boys stopped for lunch.
A curious look came over Victor Collins’ face as Tom, with an air of much importance, sprang into the chauffeur’s seat.
“Jehoshaphat! Get out of that!” he exclaimed. “You’re not going to chauf.”
“Of course I am!” snapped Tom.
“Then it’s my turn next.”
“But you don’t know how.”
“What!” scoffed Victor. “Anybody can do it. How many lessons did it take before you learned how to blow the horn?”
Tom, uttering a snort of indignation, threw in the clutch, for by this time the others were in their places.
The car had traveled over a mile before Victor spoke again.
“Say, Somers”—his tone was very mild and sweet—“you’ll let me drive, won’t you—just a little way?”
“A revolution is coming,” murmured Charlie.
“I’m afraid not, Victor,” answered Bob. “It’s too risky.”
“How about Clifton? He hasn’t run into anything yet.”
“Tom took a course of instruction.”
“Come now, Somers, what are you afraid of?” Victor’s eyes were snapping. He leaned over and touched Dave on the shoulder. “See here, Brandon, say a word for me. I want to chauf.”
“It is not so written in the book of destiny,” laughed Dave. “Experience and wisdom teach us that. Experience is sometimes necessary before wisdom can be acquired.”
“Oh, bosh!”
Victor brought out the words with angry emphasis. There was nothing in Dave’s expression to give him encouragement, and his eye caught a twitch of amusement on Tom Clifton’s lips.
It acted upon his impetuous nature somewhat after the fashion of the spark that explodes the gasoline vapor.
On the impulse of the moment, he seized Dave Brandon’s cap and hurled it spitefully upon the road.
“That’s what you get for sassing me, you big, fat Indian,” he howled. “Go and pick it up.”
The stout lad stilled a roar of protest which began to pour from Tom’s lips.
“Never mind, fellows.” His smiling face showed no sign of ruffled feelings. “I wanted a chance to stretch my legs. Thanks, Vic.”
As the motor car came to a halt, he laid his hand on the door.
Victor Collins looked at him curiously. Almost on the instant he felt a twinge of regret at his childish action. He heartily wished that Dave had flown into a rage. Then, after a snappy exchange of compliments—at which pastime he considered himself well able to hold his own—things might have quieted down without so much loss to his dignity.
Dave’s unexpected calmness, however, made him feel uncomfortably small, so he did what he usually did when things failed to go in a way that suited him—began to sulk.
Dave “stretched his legs” for a good five minutes. Then the motor car began to roll forward again. Tom didn’t scorch exactly—he knew that Bob Somers’ watchful eye was upon him—but several times Charlie Blake’s nerves received severe jolts, as trees and telegraph poles by the roadside seemed to be whirled by with bewildering rapidity.
“Kenosha, Wisconsin, fellows!” exclaimed Bob, at length, half rising from his seat.
“Kenosha!” echoed all but Victor.
“The first lap of our journey is done!” cried Dave.