A CHORUS OF GOOD-BYES

The Rambler Club’s
Motor Car

BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF

“THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S GOLD MINE”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S AEROPLANE”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSE-BOAT”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S BALL NINE”

Illustrated by the Author

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMXIII

COPYRIGHT
1913 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

The various adventures which have befallen Bob Somers and his fellow members of the club which the boys formed at Kingswood, Wisconsin, are related in “The Rambler Club Afloat,” “The Rambler Club’s Winter Camp,” “The Rambler Club in the Mountains,” “The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch,” “The Rambler Club among the Lumberjacks,” “The Rambler Club’s Gold Mine,” “The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane” and “The Rambler Club’s House-Boat.”

Bob Somers, Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton, three members of the club, have reached Chicago, homeward bound after a trip up the Hudson. The characters of the boys are widely different. Bob Somers is strong and athletic, while stout Dave Brandon, inclined to take his ease on all possible occasions, can be remarkably active when circumstances demand. Tom Clifton, a trifle self-conscious, and sometimes allowing his enthusiasm to carry him away, is really not so vain as many think.

Dave Brandon, poet and historian of the club, who is chronicling the various incidents and adventures that befall them, feels that their present motor car trip will add but little to his book. A series of unlooked-for events, however, quite reverse this idea.

In the next book, “The Rambler Club’s Ball Nine,” is told the story of certain incidents at the Kingswood high school. Several of the best players have graduated, and in their attempts to reorganize the team the Ramblers find themselves involved in a stormy and exciting struggle.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

Contents

Illustrations

The Rambler Club’s Motor
Car

CHAPTER I
OFF TO WISCONSIN

On the steps of a house on Michigan Avenue, Chicago, not far from Thirtieth Street, Victor Collins stood gazing up and down the wide thoroughfare. There was an expression in his eyes which seemed to indicate an earnest and expectant state of mind.

The steps belonged to a fine mansion with handsome columns on either side of the entrance and an ornate balcony above. Everything suggested that the neighborhood was the home of wealth and aristocracy. Even the lad on the steps fitted perfectly into the picture. His rather small, slight figure was dressed in a natty brown suit, while a cap—a very large checkered cap—rested jauntily on his neatly brushed hair. Victor Collins’ features were well proportioned, although the curves were rather too dainty, perhaps, to suit the idea of some critical lads.

Victor was becoming impatient. Impatience was one of his principal characteristics. Waiting is tedious. So Victor tilted his cap far back, the process revealing two frowning lines on his forehead which, considering his age, should never have existed.

Fortunately for the lad’s peace of mind, however, the vigorous honk, honk of a motor car, rising above all other sounds in the street, suddenly caused his gaze to become centered upon the approaching machine.

“Well, thank goodness, here they are at last!” he exclaimed, joyfully.

Running down the steps he reached the curb just as a big touring car swung up alongside and came to a stop.

“All ready, Victor?” called the chauffeur, a broad-shouldered, healthy-looking lad, leaping to the ground.

There was no answer, because at the same instant three other boys, with much noise and laughter, began climbing out.

The youngest was very tall and thin, and this was accentuated by the stoutness of a broadly smiling lad who stood close beside him. The fourth member of the group, a slender, sandy-haired boy, appeared to be about sixteen. His broad forehead and delicately chiseled features suggested fine intellect.

The first three, Bob Somers, Tom Clifton and Dave Brandon, were members of the Rambler Club, who, having made a house-boat trip up the Hudson, had reached Chicago en route to Wisconsin. Charlie Blake, their companion, a classmate, often referred to as the “grind,” on account of his studious habits, was on a visit to his friend, Victor Collins.

It naturally followed that the Ramblers, happening to be in Chicago at the same time, received an invitation to visit the Collins mansion. And it also followed that, as the Ramblers were going to have the use of a seven passenger touring car, Victor Collins was more than pleased to meet them.

Mr. Somers, Bob’s father, having motored to Chicago on business, returned by train, leaving the car at a garage, so that the boys might use it for the remainder of the journey to Kingswood, Wisconsin, their home.

When Victor Collins learned of this intention he instantly announced a determination to go with the crowd as far as Kenosha.

“You see,” he explained to Bob Somers, “my Uncle Ralph lives there; and he owns the dandiest motor yacht your eyes ever looked upon. He’s invited me to take a trip to Milwaukee. Talk about sport!”

So the morning had come when Victor’s anticipations were about to be realized.

“You’re all as brown as a bunch of street cleaners,” he remarked, after salutations had been exchanged. “I don’t believe that sun-tinting will ever wear off, either. Hello, Hannibal, hello!”

He turned and faced the house.

A very dignified colored man, wearing an immaculately clean apron, had opened the door and was standing with a large suit case in his hand.

“Bring it down and chuck it into the car,” commanded Victor.

“An awful lot of stuff for a short trip,” remarked Tom. “You ought to throw out half.”

“Fade away,” retorted Victor. “There’s another one coming.”

“Mercy!” snickered Tom. “Why don’t you bring a department store along?”

Hannibal made short work of depositing the heavy suit cases in the tonneau. Then, grinning broadly, he drew forth a letter and handed it to Charlie Blake.

“It am just come, suh,” he explained.

“The handwriting spells Kirk Talbot’s name as loud as those checks on Victor’s cap, fellows,” cried Blake.

“Kirk Talbot?” queried Tom, interestedly. “We met Kirk often on one of our trips. Remember, Bob?”

Bob did, and smiled.

“I’m sorry that he and Nat Wingate won’t be back in the school this term,” he remarked. “By the way, Dave, we’ll have to hustle to catch up with our studies.”

“Don’t mention it, Bob. Just think of how the doors of that school are yawning for us even now.”

“They’ll have to yawn a mighty big, wide yawn for you,” said Victor.

“Go ahead, Charlie, read that letter out loud,” cried Tom.

Blake was soon smiling broadly.

“Kirk has a few interesting knocks to hand out, Bob,” he chuckled. “Just listen:

“‘Dear Charlie:—

“‘Your last effusion is lying on my desk. So you are actually going to meet Bob Somers and his chums! Say, don’t those chaps manage to have the finest time ever, with their aeroplanes, house-boats, automobiles and a dash of cowboy life in between!

“‘And you are going to motor back to Kingswood with them! That’s great.

“‘But I’ve got a bit of news which ought to make Bob Somers sit up and take notice. Nat Wingate and I have formed a football team. Yes, it’s true. There’s a lot of good material going to waste here in town. And the high school team has had its own way so long it’s time somebody took them down a peg. And though we really hate to do it those chaps are in for the worst drubbing of their career, and we’re even talking about a ball nine next spring.’”

“Are we going to stay here all day?” grumbled Victor.

“Just a few moments, Vic,” laughed Charlie, resuming:

“‘Now that Nat Wingate has gone those high school chaps are like an army without a general.’”

“Huh!” remarked Tom, frowning slightly.

“‘Now, Charlie, here’s what Nat and I think. Bob Somers and his Rambler crowd may be pretty good at bowling over grizzlies, collecting panther skins, or busting bronchos, but when it comes to either football or baseball——’”

“Well, I like that!” broke in Tom indignantly.

“Prepare yourself for the worst,” laughed Charlie. “Listen to this:

“‘I guess they are simply out of the running?’”

“Did you ever, Bob Somers!” cried Tom. “The nerve of him!”

“Oh, don’t worry. I guess the high school eleven can take care of any crowd he brings,” said Bob.

“There are some pretty good baseball players, though, in Kingswood,” said Tom. “I guess it’s up to us to take hold next spring and put a little ginger into our crowd.”

“You haven’t quite the shape for a ball player, Clifton,” remarked Victor, with a critical stare.

“Humph!” sniffed Tom.

“For goodness’ sake, finish that letter, Blake,” continued Victor, with a grin.

“‘I hear that the Kingswood High has a chance to get an athletic field,’” read Charlie. “‘Mr. Rupert Barry owns a large plot of ground which ought to make a dandy ball park. But, so far, it is only a rumor, and maybe a silly one, at that. You would think so if you saw some of the playing the K. H. S. has done recently.

“‘Tell Bob Somers what I said. Good-bye and good luck.

“‘Your old chum,
“‘Kirk.’”

“A nice long letter,” drawled Dave.

“Is that all you have to say about it?” demanded Tom.

“Well, Tom,” said Dave, slowly, “your suggestion needs consideration.”

“You haven’t quite the shape for a ball player either, Brandon,” said Victor.

“Goodness—Dave’s turn now!” snickered Tom. “What kind of a figure must a ball tosser have, anyway?”

“Somers is about right,” answered Victor, calmly. “But a chap that is either all bones or all fat won’t do.”

“We’ll show you some day,” snapped Tom, hotly.

Baseball was a rather sore subject with Charlie Blake. He had tried it the season before, but lack of confidence in himself speedily caused him to drop out of the game.

Some of the boys who were not of a very considerate nature concluded that Charlie had a yellow streak, and, at this point, Bob Somers earned Blake’s everlasting gratitude by sticking manfully to him.

“Say,” remarked the latter, rather dolefully, “I’m sorry I didn’t make good on the nine last year. I certainly tried hard enough.”

“Maybe you didn’t have the right kind of a figure,” said Tom, with tremendous sarcasm.

“A nice thing to waste all this time,” grunted Victor. “We ought to be burning up some of those country roads.”

“That’s right,” laughed Bob Somers. “Pile in, fellows.”

His eyes sparkled as they ran over the graceful lines of the big touring machine. It was finished in a deep, rich red, relieved by touches of darker color. Polished lamps, steering gear and levers, in places, shot back the rays of the early morning sun.

It was something to feel that they were actually in possession of such a magnificent car—theirs to command, theirs to take them where they willed, and theirs to defy distance, time, and railroads.

Mrs. Collins was looking out of a second story window.

An instant later, Victor, from his place on the rear cushion, shouted:

“Good-bye, mother!”

“Have you all those warm wraps and the umbrella I told you to take?” she called.

“Yes, mother!”

“And that bottle of beef tea, and your raincoat?”

“Yes, mother!”

“And will you be sure to use the cough medicine in case you catch cold?”

“Yes, mother!”

“Well, do be careful, Victor. And don’t fail to send a card home this afternoon.”

Victor promised, his face glowing with anticipation.

“We are going to have a ripping time, mother!” he shouted. “Hooray! Let her whizz, Somers!”

CHAPTER II
THE FIRST LAP

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.

CHAPTER III
THE “FEARLESS”

Leaving the motor car at a garage, the boys made their way to the harbor. Down by the river they found a great deal to attract their attention. Factories with tall chimneys sent columns of smoke whirling upward; schooners, barges and a number of smaller craft were moored along the stream; and these, together with picturesque buildings, big lumber sheds or great pilings presented so many pleasing combinations to the eye that the artistic soul of Dave was enraptured.

The smell of fresh water was in the air, and along with it came a faint odor of things belonging to shipping. The gurgle and splash of lapping waves and the creaking of boats vainly tugging at their moorings formed a steady accompaniment to the occasional puffing of passing tugs or the hoarse blasts of whistles.

Close alongside a big lumber schooner the boys, who had taken turns in carrying Victor’s heavy luggage, finally discovered the motor yacht “Fearless.”

A big, burly man busy at some work on the wharf looked up as they approached.

Captain Ralph Bunderley had been successively the master of a barge, a coastwise schooner and a windjammer on the Atlantic. Having been left a comfortable fortune by a relative, he finally retired from the sea, but, feeling that to get away from the sight of land occasionally was as necessary to him as water to a fish, he had built a motor yacht some sixty feet in length designed for speed, as well as to withstand the rough weather on the lake.

Victor, still in a surly mood, felt considerably embarrassed, for Uncle Ralph, attired in a suit of faded blue overalls and a greasy cap, gave more the impression of being a man out of a job than one of the richest citizens in the community.

The boy glanced slyly around to see if any of his companions were wearing suspicious grins, but, to his relief, they were too busily engaged in inspecting the graceful lines of the motor yacht to pay attention to the captain’s appearance.

Uncle Ralph cordially shook hands. His bluff, hearty way caught the fancy of the crowd, and before long they were talking together like old acquaintances.

“There is certainly a lot of class to that cruiser, captain!” exclaimed Tom, in his gruff tones, “and I’ll bet it can go some, too.”

“Over twenty miles an hour,” answered Uncle Ralph, smilingly. “We’ll go aboard now.” He raised his voice. “Hey, you Phil Malone!”

Like a jack-in-the-box, a face popped quickly to one of the cabin port-holes.

“That’s Phil,” explained the captain. “My first mate, I call him—a bashful young chap, especially among strangers. Consider yourselves introduced.”

The boys heard a few mumbling words. Then the face disappeared.

The “Fearless,” a raised deck cruiser with a rakish bow, painted a creamy white, and relieved here and there by touches of blue and gold, made a striking appearance against the background of restless water. Like a racer impatient for the start she strained and tugged at her cables, occasionally rolling slightly as heavier onslaughts of choppy waves gurgled and splashed against her hull.

Before the crowd could set foot on deck Phil Malone appeared. He was tall and angular, with red hair, a long, gaunt face and deep-set eyes. He looked at his visitors with such a comical expression of astonishment that Victor, forgetting his ill-humor for the moment, burst into a hearty laugh.

“You never expected to see a bunch of Indians like this, hey, Phil?” he asked.

“Naw—I—I sure didn’t,” agreed Phil, as he diffidently backed away.

“Here now, don’t you run off. Give us a song.”

“Let Phil alone,” commanded Uncle Ralph. “Singing isn’t his forte. He’s better at polishing brass.”

“Clifton has an awful lot that needs attention,” mumbled Victor.

“Oh, I say, fellows, this isn’t seeing the yacht,” broke in Bob.

“Let the inspection begin at once,” returned Captain Bunderley, with a smile.

They followed him to the companionway and then down into the dining saloon.

Standing in the cozy interior the boys with the exception of Victor voiced their enthusiasm in words that brought forth chuckles of satisfaction from the old salt’s lips.

Never did woodwork, or door-knobs, or furnishings appear more spotlessly clean than those revealed by the cold gray rays streaming through the open port-holes.

“These,” remarked Captain Bunderley—he indicated the ports—“are provided with heavy plate glass and can be so locked as to make them practically water-tight. With ordinary windows, after a heavy sea has been pounding against the boat for several hours, the cabin would probably be in a mess.” Walking across the floor, he opened a door. “Let me introduce you to the engine room and galley.”

“Phil’s the galley-slave,” confided Victor, in a loud whisper.

“Who’s the engineer, captain?” asked Bob.

“Jack Stubbs, a sailor I had with me on many a sea voyage. Martin Ricks is the helmsman.”

“Now, uncle, please show the bunch your stateroom,” put in Victor.

The captain led them to a passageway abaft the engine room, presently stepping into a compartment finished in enamel white.

“This is enough to make even me feel like becoming a skipper,” commented Dave.

“If only it weren’t so dreadfully dangerous,” ventured Charlie Blake.

“Certainly would be with him as skipper,” piped Victor.

Out in the open air again the crowd found an awning extending from the stern to a point where the raised deck began. Dave expressed the opinion that it must be very delightful to sit there on a pleasant day, with the water sparkling in the sunlight and a gentle breeze sighing past.

“I guess some howling blasts would make you the sigher, instead,” laughed Victor.

“Say, Bob!”

Tom Clifton’s voice cut sharply into the conversation.

“Let’s hear it, Tom.”

“I’ve been thinking about that ball nine of ours. Kirk Talbot had an awful nerve to——”

“Ha, ha!” grinned Victor. “Can’t you get that off your mind, Clifton?”

Tom tossed his head.

“I don’t want to,” he snapped. “Besides, I’ve got an idea, and a mighty good one. I’ll tell you all about it to-night.”

“Don’t hurry yourself. We can wait.” Victor nudged Charlie sharply in the ribs. “Say, Blakelets, don’t you wish you were going along with us on the ‘Fearless’ to-morrow?”

Charlie was one of those lads who possess a certain ill-defined dread of the water. At almost every roll of the deck rather shivery feelings coursed along his spine.

“Gracious! I don’t see why in the world Victor wants to go to Milwaukee by boat,” he thought, nervously. He took a long, earnest look at the sky, then exclaimed, with considerable emphasis:

“No, Vic, I most certainly do not!”

CHAPTER IV
THE CIRCUS

The Ramblers and Charlie Blake secured quarters at one of Kenosha’s principal hotels. As Captain Bunderley had some business to attend to, Victor decided to remain with them until the hour for turning in.

Immediately after supper the crowd gathered in Bob Somers’ room.

Dave Brandon, the poet and historian of the club, was soon reclining with his accustomed ease at the window. The dark, gloomy night strangely stirred his imagination. Vague inspirations floated through his brain. He thought of the lonely lake as the subject for a poem; he cudgeled his brain to seize and hold fast the elusive words which constantly flitted before his mental vision.

Presently Dave sat up. A walk in the open air, he decided, might aid him in cornering this near-inspiration.

Bob Somers was busy writing a letter; Victor and Charlie were talking, while Tom at a table all by himself kept scribbling on sheet after sheet of paper. Tom’s face wore a tremendous frown, as though his work were of a deep and absorbing nature.

“Hello! Owing to the increased demand for paper the price must soon advance,” chirped Victor, suddenly. “What’s up?”

“You mean what’s going down,” laughed Blake.

Tom seemed to hesitate. He glanced sternly toward Victor, then exclaimed:

“This is what I was going to tell you about. I’m getting up a set of by-laws for our new Athletic Association.”

The room was immediately in an uproar. Dave, fearful that all his ideas might vanish, jumped up hastily and walked to the door.

“I’ll be back soon, Bob!” he called, with a laugh.

Out in the corridor, Tom’s voice, already raised in a hot argument with Victor, still reached him. In another moment he was down-stairs and on the street.

A brisk walk in the cool air promised to aid Dave’s faculties, as he had hoped. Already the vague phrases in his mind were beginning to shape themselves into definite words.

Here and there a swinging sign-board mingled a series of dismal creaking notes with the crisp moaning of a gusty breeze. Autumn leaves, ruthlessly torn from their resting places on the branches, occasionally whirled helter-skelter through the air, to dance merrily along the streets. Trails of dust, banging shutters, or flickering lights were all tributes to the tyranny of the never-ceasing currents.

Ten minutes later, in a sheltered position near an electric light, Dave was writing stanzas at record speed. It was really delightful—the way in which that near-inspiration had been finally conquered.

Suddenly a voice broke in upon him.

“Say, Brandon, owing to the unprecedented demand for paper in Kenosha the mills will be compelled to work overtime.”

Dave turned abruptly. Victor Collins’ dapper little figure was standing close beside him.

“Gracious; you here!” cried the writer, in astonishment.

“No; I’m back there, still kidding the by-law committee,” chuckled Victor. “Seriously, though, I finished him in about half a minute and skipped after you. What have you got there?”

“Almost a poem,” confessed Dave.

“Read it,” commanded Victor, imperiously.

“Never!” laughed Dave.

Victor argued and coaxed. He even prepared to land a “good one” in the neighborhood of the ribs; his little fists, tightly clenched, gyrated fiercely. But Dave’s clever footwork more than balanced Victor’s speed.

“All right, smarty,” grumbled the boy. “Bet it’s awful piffle, anyway.”

“Come along, Vic,” laughed Dave, as he started off.

Victor Collins’ wishes were not often so disregarded as they had been during that day. It touched his pride.

“If I don’t find a way to make these fine chaps drop down a peg or two before to-morrow I’ll be much surprised,” he muttered grimly to himself.

Thereupon Victor set his thoughts briskly to work in an effort to find a scheme for getting square.

Down one street, or out another, the two wandered, often in silence, for each had many thoughts to engage his attention, though on widely divergent subjects. The busier, brightly-lighted sections began to be slowly left behind. Electric cars no longer whizzed past them.

Dave and Victor finally found themselves on a wide, tree-lined avenue.

“What a delightful retreat,” murmured Dave. “Sitting on a nice, comfortable porch I could get ideas for a dozen—eh?”

Victor had clutched his arm.

“Say, look straight ahead, Brandon!” he cried.

“I declare, I see lights, and more lights!” exclaimed Dave.

The pair began to stare earnestly toward a number of starlike points which were moving about in a most erratic fashion.

“What in the mischief are they?” asked Victor. “Think some of the stars have tumbled poetically down through the clouds?”

“Give it up,” laughed Dave. “We’ll know before the night is over.”

Victor, whose curiosity was highly excited, now easily kept ahead of his taller companion. But the lights had entirely disappeared, leaving the street to end apparently in a void of blackness.

“Looks like a jumping off place,” exclaimed Victor. “Hurry up, Brandon.”

They began to walk rapidly, soon covering a number of blocks.

Suddenly the cluster of lights flashed into view once more. Five minutes later they heard a series of dull thuds, as of hammering, accompanied at intervals by a low rumbling of wagon wheels. When an open lot which faced the street was reached Dave and his companion saw a number of flaming torches that sent weird streaks of yellow over the ground, lighting up in their course groups of men busily engaged with sledge-hammers.

Dave Brandon’s eyes were instantly attracted toward a huge bill-board which rose from amidst a tangle of weeds and grasses. The rays from a gas lamp cast a flickering glow over its multi-colored surface.

“Look, Vic,” he exclaimed, with a laugh. “The mystery is solved.”

And Victor, whose eyes were bright with interest, read in letters that almost took in the entire length of the board:

“Ollie Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless Circus and Menagerie.”

“By George—a circus! Isn’t this jolly good luck, Brandon?” he cried, enthusiastically.

CHAPTER V
GEORGY, THE GIANT

Victor Collins had not yet arrived at an age when a circus loses its power to thrill the heart with joy. Each gilded chariot, each gaudy menagerie wagon or gorgeous trapping still awoke within his breast a responsive chord.

“They’re driving in stakes, Brandon,” he exclaimed. “See—there’s a wagon—a four-horser, and lots of others back. We’re just in time to watch ’em put up the tent.”

Over on the lot an odor of rank weeds and grasses filled the air. It was all very black and forbidding, unpleasantly suggestive of treacherous pitfalls or deep, stagnant pools of water, save where the rays of flaring light streamed through the gloom.

Heavy wagons drawn by four horses rumbled their way across the bumpy, uneven field, occasionally becoming stuck in the yielding turf, whereupon the yells of drivers and cracking of whips came sharply to their ears.

“Working like the dickens, aren’t they?” remarked Victor. “Let’s skip around a bit.”

The two, steering a course around various obstructions, made their way toward the busy scene. Soon they caught a glimpse of a faint grayish mass of canvas spread out over the ground, while towering aloft like the masts of a ship were a number of poles.

“That’s the big top, or main tent,” said Dave.

“Heads up there—look out!”

Above the sound of the jolting and creaking of a big red wagon and crisp jingle of harness came the deep-throated warning. The leaders of a four-horse team swerved sharply around.