After the bustle of getting under way again had quieted down and the car
was speeding merrily through the woodland and past the pleasant farms of
the Oxbow Valley, Agnes began to talk eagerly to Neale O'Neil about the
all-absorbing topic which occupied her mind.
"How much do you suppose Mr. Maynard really knows about the stealing of
Mr. Collinger's car?" she demanded.
"Not a thing!" said her boy friend, promptly.
"Oh, Neale!"
"No. I know Mr. Maynard. He's a perfectly square man, I am sure. I don't
suppose he ever noticed Saleratus Joe until I called his attention to
him."
"Where do you suppose they have gone?" queried the girl, starting on
another tack.
"Who?"
"That Joe and the Brady man."
"Ask me an easier one," laughed Neale O'Neil.
"But can't we do anything about it if we run across them?" she cried.
"Joe and Brady?" gasped Neale, in wonder.
"Yes."
Neale eyed her quizzically for a long half minute--that is, with one eye.
The other he kept faithfully on the road ahead.
"Aggie," he said, "you beat the world. Mucilage isn't in it with you for
sticking to a thing when your mind is once set upon it."
"Well, I don't care!" she pouted.
"Oh, yes you do. You evidently do care or you wouldn't be talking about
that stolen car all the time. What's the odds where Mr. Brady and his
chauffeur have gone? You don't suppose Brady knows anything about Mr.
Collinger's machine himself, do you?"
"Of course he does! I believe he had it stolen," cried the girl.
"And if he did, so much the more reason for his not knowing anything
about what was done with the car. That's what Mr. Maynard intimated.
Brady would have no use for it. And I doubt if anybody could use it long
without being arrested. Hard to hide an automobile nowadays. Unless the
thieves took it away up into Canada and sold it, maybe."
"Surely that Saleratus Joe couldn't have done that," rejoined Agnes,
instantly, "for he couldn't have gone there and got back so quickly."
"Good girl. Female detective, I tell you!" chortled Neale. "But how
about the other fellow?"
"Who--that awful Brady?"
"Cricky! No. They say there were two fellows in Mr. Collinger's car when
it was driven away from the court house. And maybe he--the second
chap--has the car now."
"Oh, dear me! I'd like to know," sighed Agnes.
This first day's journey was rather long; the smaller girls were tired
by mid-afternoon. So was Sammy Pinkney, although he would not admit the
fact. Tess and Dot went frankly to sleep in the tonneau; Sammy kept
himself awake by asking questions of Agnes and Neale, so that they could
no longer discuss the stealing of Mr. Collinger's automobile, or any
other subject of moment.
"If I ever go auto riding again with a kid of his size," growled Neale,
at last, "I'll insist on having his question-asker extracted first."
"Huh! What's a 'question-asker,' Neale? Have I got one?" was the query
that capped that climax.
The effort to reach a certain old-fashioned hotel on the road to
Parmenter Lake, of which Mrs. Heard knew, was successful. Without even a
minor mishap Neale brought the car to the Bristow House an hour before
sunset and in plenty of time for supper.
As none of the four Corner House girls had ever slept in a hotel before,
this was a new experience for them. Mrs. Heard engaged two double rooms
for herself and the girls, and a third for Neale and Sammy. Tom Jonah
was made comfortable in the stable yard.
The big dining-room was well filled when after they had washed, they
went down to supper. The Bristow was popular despite the homely manner
in which it was managed.
"Good home cooking," Mrs. Heard said, "and simple ways. These girls who
wait on us are all from the neighboring families hereabout. It is not a
popular resort with the sporty class of automobilists--although I notice
that occasionally one of that kind gets in here."
Her remark was to the point, for at that very moment an example to prove
the truth of it was furnished by a big man sitting alone at a small
table at the end of the dining room.
"What?" he suddenly bellowed. "I can't get a drink here?"
"Tea, coffee, milk, or soft drinks," the waitress at that table recited,
calmly. "The Bristow House is temperance."
The big man got up heavily, his face red, and refused to eat. "That
settles it!" he growled. "I'd like to know what you keep a hotel for?"
"To feed people," said the waitress, wearily. She had evidently
experienced a like incident before.
"That's Jim Brady!" whispered Agnes, in excitement, to Neale O'Neil.
Neale sat near a window. When the politician from Milton had stamped
out, Neale peered around the window blind. The big French car was
standing before the hotel.
"But say! that isn't the freckled-faced fellow with him," Agnes
declared, peering around the other side of the window frame.
"No. New chauffeur. There they go--aiming for home. Guess he's left
Saleratus Joe somewhere."
"I'd just like to know where," sighed Agnes, returning reluctantly to
her supper.
By the time supper was over Sammy was again nodding like one of those
mechanical figures shop-keepers sometimes put in their show windows to
attract attention. Neale had almost to carry him up to the bedroom, and
did have to help him undress after he was there.
"Cricky!" ejaculated the flaxen-haired youth, "I didn't start out on
this tour with the expectation of nursing along a child, as well as an
automobile. I'm going to have a lot of fun myself if I've got to play
nursemaid for this kid."
Neale was really good-natured, however, and, for all his scolding, he
helped Sammy off with his clothing gently enough. As Ruth had
threatened, there was a bath made ready for Sammy, and that rite had to
be administered before the sleepy little boy could creep between the
sheets.
While Sammy was splashing in the bath a shout of laughter from Neale
brought Mrs. Heard and the two older girls to the door of the boys'
bedroom.
"What _is_ the matter, Neale O'Neil?" demanded Ruth.
Neale was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rocking himself to and fro,
and weak from laughter. "Look what the kid's brought with him in his
bag!" gasped the older boy. "I was looking for his night clothes--and
something clean for him to put on in the morning. See the mess of stuff
I found, will you?"
It was a self-evident fact that Mrs. Pinkney, Sammy's mother, did not
pack her little son's suitcase.
Neale had hauled out first of all a tangle of fishing tackle; a
baking-powder box, well filled with a supply of squirmy fish-worms, kept
moist in black soil that had sifted all over the contents of the bag
through the holes in the cover of the box punched to give the worms air.
There was Sammy's air-rifle in two sections and a plentiful supply of
ammunition; a banana reduced to pulp; a bottle of matches; a sling-shot;
a much-rusted bread-knife with its edge patiently ground upon a
whetstone--evidently Sammy's idea of a hunting-knife or a bowie-knife.
In addition there was a very grubby-looking pocket-handkerchief in which
were tightly tied two slimy garden snails; there was a piece of candy in
a soiled paper, with a buffalo nickel imbedded in the confection; two
brass wheels out of the works of a clock; last Sunday's lesson paper;
two horse-chestnuts; and a pint flask with very suggestive looking
contents.
"What?" gasped Mrs. Heard. "That boy carrying liquor?"
"And snails!" ejaculated Agnes.
"Such a mess!" exclaimed Ruth.
"But snails or the worms or anything else there," said the widow,
severely, "will not steal away men's brains and make them ill. Where did
that boy get whisky--or is it brandy?" she added.
Neale had finally extracted the cork. He first smelled and then tasted
the suggestive looking liquor. Mrs. Heard gasped in horror. Agnes
squealed. Ruth demanded:
"What is it?"
"It's what I thought!" said Neale. "Licorice water. Wonder the flask
didn't break and drench everything with the stuff. And he _has_ brought
a few clothes."
"I see very plainly," Mrs. Heard said, when the laughter had subsided,
"that the first town we come to of any size, we shall have to buy Sammy
some needfuls. Goodness! how ashamed his mother will be when she learns
of this."
Sammy was too sleepy to be questioned at that time about the wonderful
contents of the suitcase; but in the morning he confessed that after his
mother had packed the bag for him, he had been obliged to take out "a
lot of useless duds" to make room for the necessary miscellany listed
above which, to his boyish mind, was far more important.
However, it afforded the party a hearty laugh and Mrs. Heard (who
declared her nephew--the now dignified county surveyor--had been just like
Sammy) cheerfully purchased a proper outfit for the lad.
"I knew Sammy would be an awful nuisance," Ruth said.
"But, goodness! isn't he funny?" giggled Agnes.
The party made a good start from the Bristow House about nine o'clock.
They were to run that day to Parmenter Lake, where they might spend some
time, and to one of the hotels at that resort the trunks had been sent.
They expected to have their lunch again in the open, and the hamper had
been filled at the Bristow House.
Ever since the day the Corner House girls had first met Mrs. Heard and
her brown pony, Jonas, there had been a matter puzzling Tess and Dot;
and as time passed and the curiosity of their two active young minds was
not satisfied, the children had grown more and more insistent in their
demands on Neale O'Neil.
They wished to know what it was Neale had whispered into the fat brown
pony's ears when the ex-circus lad had cured the stubborn creature's
balkiness--for the time being, at least.
"I've always thought, Neale O'Neil, that you were better than most
boys," Tess Kenway said, seriously, the subject having come up again on
this morning's run.
"And he never was so stingy before," wailed Dot.
"If he'd only tell me what he said to Jonas," Tess went on, "we could
say it to Billy Bumps when he balks. And you know he _does_ balk
sometimes--most awfully."
"Oh, Tess! maybe the same words that started the pony wouldn't start a
goat. Would they, Neale?" asked the smallest Corner House girl.
But Neale only grinned, and refused to be drawn like a badger. The
little girls could not get him to talk at all about the mystery.
And right here, while they were miles from any village--even while they
were completely out of sight of any dwelling--a most astonishing thing
happened.
Without previous warning the engine began to cough, and the car ran more
slowly.
"Now what's happened, Neale?" inquired Mrs. Heard, rather nervously.
Neale made no reply at all for a minute. He tried first one lever and
then another, ran slow, tried to speed up, and then found that in spite
of everything he did, the engine was going dead.
He managed to get the automobile to the side of the road out of the way
of other traffic before the engine entirely ceased to turn.
"Although there doesn't seem to be much traffic of any sort over this
road," said Ruth. "We haven't been passed by an auto this morning."
"I should say not!" exclaimed Agnes, promptly. "Our car is no flivver,
I'd have you know. Do you expect, Ruth Kenway, to have all the cars in
Christendom pass us?"
"It looks now as though some of them might," responded the older girl,
laughing at her sister's vehemence.
"I guess you've heard the story of the wealthy man who went out driving
in his high-powered French car," remarked Neale, who had tipped back the
hood and was looking to see if he could find what was wrong, "and his
chauffeur drove too slowly to suit him.
"'This is like a funeral procession,' said the owner to the chauffeur;
'why don't you drive around that flivver in front of us?'
"'No use, boss,' the chauffeur told him.
"'Why not?' demanded the owner.
"'There'll be another flivver ahead of that.'"
"That's all right, Neale O'Neil," put in Agnes, smartly. "Trying to take
our attention off the fact that _we're_ not moving ahead very fast,
either! What's the matter with it?"
"I--don't--know," confessed the boy.
He tried the starter and got a few feeble turns out of the engine.
"Nothing doing," he grunted.
"Is it something about the wiring?" murmured Agnes.
"Can it be the carburetor?" asked Ruth.
"Maybe something is out of gear underneath the car," suggested Mrs.
Heard, briskly. "Don't they always have to get under the car to repair
it?"
"Oh, yes!" groaned Neale. "'Get out and get under.' That's the
auto-driver's motto." He pulled off his coat preparatory to doing
exactly what Mrs. Heard had suggested.
Tess observed gravely:
"Well! _this_ isn't something Neale can whisper to and make go when it
balks."
To punctuate the laugh that followed this perfectly serious statement on
the part of Tess, Agnes cried:
"Oh, listen! here comes another car."
The rumble of an approaching automobile was then heard by all, and it
was coming over the same road they had come. Before it appeared around
the nearest turn, they heard the warning "Honk! Honk!" of its horn.
There whisked into sight the next moment the rapidly-gliding automobile.
Agnes was standing up to look back. Almost instantly she uttered another
cry--this time almost a shriek:
"Oh, Neale!"
"Cricky!" was the boy's gasped rejoinder.
For as the strange car flashed by they had both recognized the man at
the steering wheel as Joe Dawson; and the appearance of the fellow
beside him was not a whit more confidence-breeding than was Joe's.