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.