TOM AT THE WHEEL
The moment the door had closed behind his friends Tom Clifton prepared
to make good use of the time.
“Now I’ll be able to finish it up in great shape,” he said softly to
himself.
He listened, his face wearing a very serious expression, until their
cheery voices were stilled by distance, then drawing a voluminous
collection of papers from his inside pocket he spread them out
carefully on the center table and set to work.
Evidently the problems which confronted him were of a very profound and
complex nature. The lines on his forehead deepened; occasionally he
uttered a half sigh, as some particularly knotty point was encountered;
then, losing patience, he rose to his feet and walked toward an
armchair near the window.
Picking up a book, the well-worn appearance of which indicated much
usage, he opened it at random and began to read a description of the
deltoid muscle, its origin, insertion and various functions.
But a treatise on anatomy, just then, couldn’t hold Tom’s attention
long.
“By George, that twenty-second article is a sticker,” he exclaimed,
aloud. “I’ll get it through.” He looked at his watch. “Gee, I’ll have
to hurry. Isn’t Victor the freshest little dub? Afraid to take the car
out alone, am I? He certainly does make me tired.”
When the obstinate twenty-second article was finally conquered the lad
breathed a sigh of relief, and a good-natured grin replaced the scowl
on his face, as he began gathering the loose sheets of paper together.
“It’s a dandy piece of work, all right--bet Dave’ll think so, too,” he
reflected. “We’re going to make some stir in the Kingswood High this
term.”
Tom busied himself for a few moments in replacing his belongings in a
suit case. This done, he glanced at his watch once more.
“It’s most time for ’em now,” he murmured. “Crickets! I’m anxious to
hop into that car again.”
Thoughts of the pleasant journey before them and the sensation which
his by-laws were certainly bound to create were in his mind to the
exclusion of all else, but, as time passed by, the former steadily
gained the ascendency.
“What’s keeping those chaps, I wonder?” Tom, in his impatience, paced
the floor. “They ought to have been here before this.”
The next quarter of an hour was really a distressing period to the tall
boy. Every step in the corridor, every voice which penetrated into the
room, made his heart beat with hope. But as each faded away it left him
annoyed, even angry.
“Never knew Bob Somers to fail in his word before,” he repeated several
times.
Unable to stand the dreary task of waiting any longer Tom slapped on
his cap, and, in a moment, was down-stairs at the door.
He looked searchingly along the street in both directions. But there
were no familiar faces in the ever-passing throng.
“Hang it all,” he growled. “If we were in Chicago I might understand
it, because there’s a fire every few minutes, or some kind of a rumpus
going on. But here!--Why don’t those chaps come back?”
No answer was suggested by the mental query which insistently
propounded itself; so, finally, with a last long look and grunt of
disapproval, Tom climbed back to Bob Somers’ room. The book on anatomy
reappeared, and the student, with an air of deep injury, once more
began to read.
It was, at length, fully fifteen minutes beyond the time appointed for
the yacht to leave.
Suddenly Tom sat bolt upright. He seemed as startled as though some one
had clapped him unexpectedly on the shoulder.
Could it be possible?
He drew a long, deep breath. A dreadful suspicion had entered his head.
He tried to cast it off with scorn; but, somehow, the thought would
not down. Were the boys testing his courage? Had they actually gone
away with Victor on the motor yacht? Did the crowd wish to find out how
he stood in relation to the “flopper” class? And yet it wasn’t like
honest, straightforward Bob Somers to act in such a way.
The precious book of anatomy fell unheeded to the floor, as Tom
restlessly paced up and down, while conflicting ideas chased each other
swiftly through his brain.
“I don’t--can’t believe it,” he said, aloud. “Of course not! What a
silly idiot I am. The crowd’ll be here soon. Mustn’t let ’em think they
had me aeroplaning.” He smiled grimly as an idea struck him. “I’ll just
sprint down to the wharf and settle it.”
So Tom, with unseemly haste, again dashed down-stairs, and did almost
“sprint” through the streets in the direction of the river. It was
quite a long distance, too, but probably few had ever covered it in so
short a time.
The moment his eyes rested on the familiar pilings at which Captain
Bunderley’s motor yacht was usually moored he stopped short and uttered
a low whistle. His suspicions were not without foundation, after all.
The “Fearless” had gone.
Yes, the “Fearless” had gone! There could be no doubt about it. Tom
Clifton felt a strange variety of emotions assail him. He eagerly
scanned the river, half expecting to see the yacht somewhere on its
surface. But his search was in vain.
“Well, well! Victor must have actually managed to pull off that trick,”
he growled.
Smarting with indignation, the lad covered the space between him and
the end of the wharf in record time.
A small, stout man sitting on a barrel looked up as he approached.
“Hey,” began Tom, “were you here this morning when that motor yacht
left?”
The stout man, with a whimsical light in his eye, was gazing hard into
the boy’s face.
“Yer hat is a great distance up from the ground, me lad,” he remarked,
casually. “Kin ye see acrost to the lake from there?”
“Oh, cut it out. I’m no lighthouse!” snapped Tom, forgetting politeness
in his ruffled state of mind. “Were you----”
The stout man stopped him.
“I were, for sure,” he answered, emphatically.
“See any boys on board?”
“I did--sure ag’in.”
“Been gone long?”
“Yes, a right smart spell. Runned off without yer, did they, mate? Some
people is mean enough for anythin’.”
Tom was too angry and disturbed to make any reply to this observation.
“My, but wouldn’t I like to punch that little Victor,” he thought. “I
didn’t think it of Bob Somers; or Dave, either. Looks as though the
whole bunch is trying to have a big joke at my expense. Hey?”
The little man was speaking again.
“Ye oughter be real glad ye weren’t took along, mate,” he remarked,
pleasantly. “Ye look kinder peart now; but a right smart spell o’
tossin’ about out there ’ud take that out o’ you. I always says, give
me seasoned water every time.”
“Seasoned water?” queried Tom.
“Sure, mate; some as has plenty o’ salt in it. I’ve sailed on both
kinds, an’ I know.”
“Then I suppose the lake makes you feel a bit peppery at times, eh?”
grunted Tom, as he strode rapidly away.
“Well, of all things!” he exclaimed, hotly, when out of hearing
distance. “Isn’t this the limit! A dandy trip bungled at the very
start; and all on account of that little spoiled kid. By George, they
certainly have put it up to me to take our car to Milwaukee all alone.
Think I’ll ‘flop,’ eh, as Victor calls it? Well, I rather guess not!”
Tom looked very savage indeed; his fists were tightly clenched, and he
glared about him in a way that might have attracted attention had any
observers been near.
The cool gusts of wind which continually swept against the lad,
together with the busy scenes along the wharves, finally began to calm
his belligerent spirit. The first effect of the unpleasant situation
wearing off left him with a dogged feeling of determination to show his
mettle.
Presently Tom sat down on an old box, from which position he had a good
view of the river. But another period of waiting brought no result, and
he rose to his feet more disgusted than ever.
His mind had been busily engaged. He did not intend to let any one,
even his best friends, play jokes on him.
“If the bunch doesn’t turn up mighty fast,” he reflected, “I’ll have a
little fun in that car all by my lonesome. No doubt now--it’s Milwaukee
for mine.”
The boys didn’t turn up. Whereupon Tom, deciding that he had, with
Sherlock Holmes intelligence, made the proper deductions, went back to
the hotel. There he gathered together the few articles of luggage which
the crowd carried with them and paid their bill.
“I’ll be back soon with the car,” he explained, briefly, to the clerk.
At the garage the proprietor was mildly surprised to see only the very
tall lad returning to take charge of the motor car, but, concluding
that it was none of his affair, he made no comments.
The machine seemed to have increased marvelously in size since Tom
had last seen it. In the midst of other vehicles it loomed up in a
positively gigantic fashion. How easily he could picture in his mind
Dave Brandon lolling in comfort on the rear seat. What a strange,
dismal silence hovered over the big car now! A peculiar sense of
loneliness stole over him. He stood, irresolute. Then, in an instant,
and with a shrug of his shoulders, he climbed up to the chauffeur’s
seat.
“Yes, suh, I done filled the tank with gasoline,” explained a smiling
colored lad, in answer to his query. “Dar ain’t nuthin’ to be did.
Whar’s ye goin’, suh, if I might ask?”
“To Milwaukee,” answered Tom.
“Sho, dat am sartingly a fine trip. Yes, suh, de way am clear.”
Tom Clifton’s hand trembled a little as he laid it on the steering
wheel. Without the presence of the others to strengthen his courage
the task of driving the car through the city streets assumed more
formidable proportions than he liked. But, giving the button on the
dash a push, he muttered, determinedly:
“I’ll play the game right to the end.”
In another instant the echoes of the engine’s rapid pulsation thundered
through the garage. A cloud of gasoline vapor swirled aloft, to lose
itself among the rafters. The clutch was thrown on.
“So-long, Benjamin!”
“So-long, Mistah! I done hopes yo hab a bully trip.”
The big touring car slid easily past the doorway; a series of warning
blasts from the horn sounded, and Tom was on the street.
Once outside, with the machine responding to his slightest touch, he
soon began to feel a little easier in mind. Yet how empty the car
seemed! How he missed the cheery voices and merry laughter of his
companions! Why had they allowed themselves to be so influenced by
Victor--why?
And then the thought that he had acted too impulsively flashed through
Tom’s mind.
“Suppose I should find ’em at the hotel? They’d have a jolly good laugh
at my expense, after all,” he reflected.
But, on this point, he need not have disturbed himself. Neither Victor
nor any of the others was at the hotel when the car stopped before the
entrance.
“Those chaps even had the confounded cheek to leave their traps for
me to look after,” grumbled Tom, as the boy in bright brass buttons
assisted him in stowing away the luggage. “Well, all right. The first
inning of the game’s been played. Here’s the beginning of the second.”
Once more the touring car was in motion. With all the responsibility
resting on his shoulders, the lad experienced new and novel
sensations--and most of them were not altogether pleasant. He sadly
missed Bob Somers’ words of caution and advice. Approaching the public
square, with numerous vehicles and pedestrians on all sides, he became
decidedly nervous.
Just as the car rolled toward the principal crossing, around the
corner of which Tom decided to turn, a tall man who had been reading a
newspaper by the curb suddenly stepped out into the street.
With a cry, Tom reached over and sounded the horn sharply. He took
his foot off the clutch and threw on the break. It was an instant of
intense satisfaction to him--and, perhaps, some surprise, when the
touring car abruptly stopped.
And, meanwhile, a flying leap had taken the man to safety.
At the moment of landing, fully a yard from the starting point, his
temper took effect all at once.
“Hey there, what’s the matter? Ain’t you got no eyes?” he demanded, in
amazingly gruff tones.
“Well, that’s a good one!” cried Tom, though his voice was somewhat
shaky. “How--how--about yourself?”
“Don’t pass out any flip talk, now. I won’t stand for it.”
“Better wait until I do.”
The angry citizen paused, took a good look at the tall chauffeur, then:
“Why, you ain’t nothin’ but a kid!” he exclaimed.
Tom’s face flushed.
“I’m old enough to know what I’m doing,” he answered, witheringly.
“You are, hey? There ought to be a law passed against letting fellers
what ain’t cut their eye teeth yet drive regular whaleback ships like
that through the streets. What are you doing in there, anyway, boy?”
“If you throw any more words in this direction you may find out.”
“Got a license for knocking folks down, have you?”
A small crowd had already gathered, and seemed to be thoroughly
enjoying the situation.
“Don’t let ’im faze you, chaufyer,” screeched a very small lad.
Tom, making a strong effort to appear cool and dignified, leaned
forward. His eye caught the tall man’s.
“I’d like to say this,” he roared: “if the city intended the middle of
the street to be used as a place for reading newspapers they’d have put
a few benches and chairs along it.”
Chuckles of mirth came from the audience.
“Ha, ha! You’ve got ’im goin’,” piped a very youthful citizen.
“Goin’! He’s the one that will be goin’!” roared the man whose life had
been saved. “Where’s there a cop? Where’s that officer I saw on the
corner a few moments ago?”
“If he hadn’t gone, too,” cried Tom, looking around, “he’d pinch you
for disorderly conduct and blocking the highway. Get out of the road.
This machine is going to buzz like a sawmill.”
An elderly lady, who disliked everybody that rode in an automobile,
declared to a companion that Tom was the most brazen-looking young
scamp she had ever seen; and, the fact is, he did not at that moment
appear very angelic.
Snorting indignantly, and still somewhat unnerved, Tom threw in the
clutch.
He had expected to spend some time scouting around in the center of
the city. But this experience caused him to decide that the more quiet
streets would do just as well.
“That chap was certainly a grouch,” he murmured, still highly
indignant. “But I guess my remark about the benches squelched him.”
A number of blocks were passed, each instant bringing him nearer to the
wharf where the “Fearless” had been moored.
“Bet, by this time, the yacht is back,” he murmured, hopefully. “I’ll
never let on how the boys had me going, both in and out of the car.”
The river soon swept into view. Tom, peering eagerly ahead, felt his
spirits sink again. A number of boats dotted the gray, gloomy-looking
surface, but the motor yacht “Fearless” was not among the number.
“Well, well! I might have known I was right.”
The car came to a full stop. Tom sat for many minutes absorbed in deep
reflection. Then a grim smile played across his features.
“I’ll show ’em how well I can play the game,” he cried once more to
the empty air. His hand gripped the horn bulb. A resounding blast
instantly followed. “There goes the signal for the third inning. I’ll
make a home run to Milwaukee, and bob up smiling.”