THE WIRES BRING BAD NEWS
“The question is, what shall we do for a guide?” said Miss Briggs later
in the afternoon, after they had finished the noon meal in their own
camp.
“Unless we find our ponies we shall have no need of a guide,” answered
Grace. “Ponies are what we are most in need of at this stage of our
journey.”
“We can walk, can’t we?” spoke up Nora Wingate.
A chorus of “no’s” greeted her suggestion.
“Why don’t you give the subject some ‘absent treatment,’ Emma?”
suggested Stacy Brown.
“I—I never tried it on a horse, and don’t know whether or not it will
work,” stammered Miss Dean amid laughter. “I’ll try it, if you wish. As
a matter of fact, my instructor in mental treatment says that one can
accomplish anything if one only has faith in his ability to do so.”
“Stacy, do you hear that?” laughed Grace, smiling at the blinking fat
boy. “It might do wonders for your appetite. Would you like to have Emma
try her new fad on you?”
“Not on me,” protested Chunky with emphasis. “Let her try it on the
horses. What’s the news, Uncle Hip?” he added, as Lieutenant Wingate
sauntered into camp.
“None at all. The agent and the officials still insist that it is our
car and our shipment of horses that lies on the siding over yonder. I
have come back to you folks for a conference. What would you advise
doing in the matter?”
“I, for one, advise remaining right where we are until we get our
ponies, even if it takes all summer,” suggested Emma, but no one gave
the slightest heed to her advice.
“Hippy, have you seen the waybill?” inquired Grace, who had been
regarding Lieutenant Wingate thoughtfully.
“The waybill?” exclaimed Hippy.
“That carload of draft horses must weigh about a million pounds,”
declared Stacy.
“I don’t mean ‘weigh,’ I mean ‘way,’” laughed Grace.
“That’s right, Hippy. Odd it hadn’t occurred to me,” nodded Tom.
“The waybill is the shipping orders for the railroad by which conductors
of trains are informed where the cars of their train are to be dropped
off,” Grace informed her companions. “This waybill bears the number of
the car and names its contents and destination. It might not be a bad
idea to see what the waybill says. I don’t suppose the agent has
examined it. If it is our car the mystery is too deep for me to solve.”
“Say, Brown Eyes, you have a wonderful head,” complimented Lieutenant
Wingate.
“Remarkable mentality,” agreed Stacy under his breath, giving Tom Gray a
sidelong glance, but Tom merely laughed good-naturedly.
Hippy said he would see the agent at once, and started at a brisk walk
for the railway station. He returned an hour later.
“Well?” called Tom, when Lieutenant Wingate was still some distance
away.
“The car on the siding is not our car at all. Our waybill calls not only
for a car from another road, but for a car with a wholly different
number. That was a big suggestion, Grace,” added Hippy, smiling at her.
“What did you do about it?” inquired Elfreda Briggs.
“Do? I expressed my sentiments in a message to the superintendent that
made the wires sing. I’ll get action or I’ll—”
“Get into jail,” finished Emma amid laughter.
“Well, not this trip,” responded Lieutenant Wingate dryly. “I just came
over to tell you. I’m going back now to see what the Super has to say in
reply. I’ll let you know as soon as something develops. ’Bye!”
By the time Hippy reached the station the agent had received orders
regarding the car of draft horses but no information regarding the
ponies, so Lieutenant Wingate sent another message, more forceful than
he had sent before. Still no reply. Hippy sent still another one; and he
continued to send messages to various railroad officials, messages that
had a punch in them.
In the meantime Grace and Tom had walked into the village, first to the
post office, then to the hotel, to inquire if there were a place nearby
where they might procure horses for their journey, and to make further
inquiries about a guide, provided they should need one. Their quest
amounted to this: There was a stock farm about ten miles from Cinnabar
where horses might possibly be obtained, but neither the hotel
proprietor nor the postmaster knew where they could find a guide, as, at
this, the busiest period of the tourist traffic, guides were in great
demand.
“When you get into the Park you no doubt will be able to pick up someone
who knows the Park. If not, why not take a Concord coach or a car and do
the Park the way other tourists do?” the hotel proprietor suggested.
“Because we prefer to ride our horses through,” answered Tom briefly.
“Come, Grace!”
They returned to camp, first having made some food purchases, and
shortly after their arrival Hippy came in, but he still had no news for
them, and that night the Overland Riders turned in rather glum, for
their misfortune at the very beginning of the season’s outing disturbed
them considerably. Then again, the ponies belonging to their outfit were
trained animals and represented quite a heavy investment; but, like the
good travelers they were, the Overland Riders tried to make the best of
their troubles, hoping that the morrow might bring them better luck.
The morning, however, failed to bring anything in the way of news, and
once more Lieutenant Wingate began bombarding officials with telegrams.
This continued for three days following; then, one morning, the camp was
awakened by a loud halloo, which brought all hands to instant
wakefulness. Hippy ran out from his tent in his pajamas.
“Telegram for Theophilus Wingate,” announced the boy who had brought the
message.
The Overlanders, peering from their tents, saw Hippy tear the envelope
open, then, after a brief perusal of the contents, begin to dance about
with as fine a display of temper as his companions had ever seen him
exhibit.
“Uncle Hip’s got the willies,” observed Stacy Brown. “I hope he doesn’t
give them to me.”
“Hey, there! What is it all about?” demanded Tom Gray, emerging from his
tent.
“Yes, let us have the news. Don’t keep us in suspense any longer,”
called Grace.
“News? News?” roared Hippy. “Of all the blithering idiots—of all the
fool blundering that mortal man ever heard of, this is the end of the
limit. What do you think?”
“Nothing!” shouted Stacy.
“It is too early in the morning for Chunky to think,” piped Emma. “You
should know by this time that his mental processes never do function
before breakfast, and then merely nominally.”
“Why don’t you give me the absent treatment?” suggested Stacy.
“As I began to remark, what do you folks think?” resumed Hippy. “Listen
to the message from the division superintendent of the outfit that calls
itself a railroad.” Hippy then read the following message to his
companions:
“‘T. H. Wingate:
“‘Regret to report that car 16,431, billed Cinnabar, with horses
for the Overland Riders, was by mistake shifted to siding at
Summit Junction early morning of the fourteenth and by mistake
of train crew left there when taking on car of work horses for
the west. Regret also to report that, upon examining the car
supposed to contain Overland Riders’ mounts, it was found to be
empty.
“‘Making investigation and will report developments.’”
“Empty!” howled Stacy Brown.
“Our ponies gone!” cried Emma.
The Overland Riders uttered long-drawn groans; that is, all did except
Hippy Wingate. Hippy, barefooted, was chasing the telegraph messenger
out of camp, and shouting his opinion of railroads and railroad
officials.