EXPLANATIONS
Great as was the amazement of the boys to see Victor, his next words
amazed them still more.
“Come down out of that, Clifton, and I’ll punch you good and plenty!”
he howled.
Before Tom Clifton could gather his wits together and reply, Victor was
speaking again.
“That was about the meanest and silliest trick I ever heard of!” he
exclaimed, brandishing a small white fist in the air. “I’ve got it in
for you, too, Blakelets; and ditto for you, Bob Somers.”
The group in the motor car exchanged glances of bewilderment. Then the
chauffeur spoke up.
“How did you get here, Victor?” he asked.
This question seemed to increase Victor’s fiery attitude.
“Oh, don’t try to jolly me,” he screeched. “Put that innocent look off
your face, Tom Clifton. And if you’re not too scared step down and get
the first instalment of what’s coming to you!”
Tom Clifton, fairly aghast, flushed crimson. For him to be threatened
in the presence of his chums by a boy of Victor’s size was more than
his feelings could stand.
Words and actions came to his relief. Springing to the ground he seized
Victor by the arm.
“What’s the matter, you silly little duffer?” he exclaimed, fiercely.
But, like a flash, the thought came to him that, after all, it might
be only a joke. “Oh, it’s all right, Victor,” he added, with forced
calmness. “You can’t string me.”
“Or rope me into believing any taffy. I’ll show you how much joke
there’s in it!”
Something happened.
Victor’s small fists began to move with truly remarkable speed. It was
Tom Clifton’s ribs that stopped several snappy punches.
“Ouch! Quit it!” yelled Tom, jumping aside with undignified haste.
“Stop--stop, I say!”
But whichever way he turned Victor was always dancing before him.
“You would make me miss that motor yacht trip, eh? Thought maybe I
looked soft, eh? Well, here’s one for that!”
Two pairs of restraining hands suddenly gripped Victor Collins’
shoulders.
“No more of this, Vic,” commanded Bob, sternly. “We don’t want to start
a rival show on this side of the street.”
“You’re making more noise than that fat barker over there!” added
Charlie.
Tom Clifton, painfully conscious that he had made no effort to defend
himself, and feeling the various assortment of punches which Victor had
liberally bestowed upon him, suddenly decided that his reputation would
suffer unless some decisive action was taken.
A good shaking, he thought, would be about the proper thing.
“I’ll tend to him myself, Bob. Leave the whole thing to me!” he cried.
While Victor squirmed and struggled in Bob Somers’ strong grasp,
Charlie, bubbling over with mirth, had secured a firm hold on Tom
Clifton’s arm.
“I guess the circus has been too much for somebody’s nerves,” he
chuckled. “Better stop. There are about eighteen people looking over.”
“I don’t care!” stormed Tom.
“I do,” said Bob. “Let’s begin at the beginning, and come to the end
fast. Victor seems peeved about something. Speak up, Vic: what’s the
trouble?”
Realizing that the odds were too great to overcome, Victor simmered
down.
“There’d be thirty-nine people looking at us if I had my way,” he said,
sullenly. “This thing isn’t ended yet. Tall Indians are easy for me.”
“Then explanations ought to be easy,” laughed Bob.
Victor poured forth the story of his woes with a volubility that showed
a strong grip on the English language, and, as he proceeded, the faces
of the three completely changed expression. Bob and Charlie fairly
roared with mirth, while Tom, backing up against the motor car, seemed
almost too astonished to speak.
“We had our trip on the yacht,” cried Blake, between his peals of
laughter.
“And Tom did motor it to Milwaukee,” supplemented Bob. “But ‘things
are not always what they seem.’”
Briefly he explained the situation. His manner and tones were so
convincing as to completely silence Victor Collins’ suspicions. The
angry look slowly faded from his eyes. He stuck his hands into his
overcoat pocket and whistled shrilly.
For once in his life Victor had learned a lesson.
The story of Tom’s brilliant deductions was, of course, too good to
keep, so the “grind,” in spite of the tall boy’s frantic winks, gave
all the details with a charming disregard for his feelings.
The sheepish expression which had rested on Victor’s face gave place
to an enormous grin. He laughed quite as loudly as Bob and Charlie had
done a few moments before.
“Well,” growled Tom, “can you blame me? Weren’t you all twisted up
yourself? I went down to the wharf and saw----”
“So did Brandon and I; and all we saw was a mean-looking little fat
man. He had the nerve to come up and begin talking. ‘No; not even the
glitter of a cent,’ I told the beggar. Whew, wasn’t he hopping mad,
though! You ought to have seen how he beat it.”
“A little fat man!” cried Tom, opening his eyes. “Why--why, he must
have been the very one that told me about the boys going off on the
yacht.”
“He did?” gasped Victor.
“Yes! Why, he wasn’t any beggar. It wouldn’t take a Sherlock Holmes
to see that he had sized up the situation and was going to tell you
all about it. If you had only given him half a chance, Victor Collins,
this----”
“What! Are you going to try and put the blame on me?” interrupted
Victor, fiercely. “It wouldn’t have changed things at all--not a bit of
it. I knew the whole crowd had skipped.”
“Say, fellows!” Bob Somers’ loud exclamation put an end to the wrangle.
“No wonder that chap over there has a shape like Dave’s! It is Dave;
and I knew it!”
“Why, of course it is!” snapped Victor.
“Great Scott!” cried Tom. “What--that fellow with the red coat and
dinky little cap our Dave? Somebody fan me with a feather.”
“A rope’s end would suit your case better. Yes; Brandon has had to earn
his own living for once.”
“Help!” murmured Charlie. “This has been almost too much for my weak
intellect.”
“Now, Vic, do let us have an explanation!” cried Bob.
“You might have told us before, instead of raising such a howl about
me,” broke in Tom.
Victor immediately launched forth into a vivid description of their
experiences with the circus. He had a great deal to say, but the boys
did not stand still while listening to it. Each was too anxious to see
David Brandon in his new and astonishing rôle. They rapidly crossed the
street, then made as straight a line as booths, stands and people would
permit toward the entrance to the show.
All the sights and sounds peculiar to circuses were on every side.
Their thoughts, however, were centered upon the boy with the red coat
and tasseled cap who seemed to be talking as easily and naturally as
though merely reciting in school.
In the midst of an impassioned argument Dave caught sight of his
friends. He waved his arm, but that was all he could do in the way of
greeting.
The end of Victor’s story fell on inattentive ears.
Tom felt his heart swell with pride--pride that Dave--their Dave--had
again shown his versatility. Forgetting diffidence, he yelled:
“You didn’t know our automobile passed you on the road last night, eh,
Dave?”
And a moment after these words were spoken he observed a small, thin
man, who had been staring toward them, start forward. He also noticed,
as the man approached, that he was scowling angrily.
“Say, boys,” he exclaimed, in a voice which the Ramblers had heard on
the night before, “so it was your car that passed us on the road, eh?
Well, I’ve got a word to say!”