  “RAH! RAH! RAH! RAH!” SCREAMED PAUL JONES IN
THE AUTO BOYS’ VACATION
By James A. Braden
AUTHOR OF “THE AUTO BOYS,” “THE AUTO BOYS’ OUTING,” “THE AUTO BOYS’ QUEST,” “FAR PAST THE FRONTIER,” “CONNECTICUT BOYS IN THE WESTERN RESERVE,” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY E. A. FURMAN
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY CHICAGO—AKRON, OHIO—NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY CONTENTS
THE AUTO BOYS’ VACATION CHAPTER I AGAIN THE LONELY SOUTH FORK ROAD “You can’t hide anything from the chief,” observed Willie Creek, when Chief Fobes had left his garage, the scene of the mystery related in The Auto Boys’ Big Six. “Well, he didn’t seem to be a whole lot interested to find out who broke in here—who killed our dog,” replied Billy Worth, severely. “You don’t know him,” returned Mr. Creek. “You just show him the fellow that done the deed and he’ll arrest him mighty quick.” “Maybe if we’d see a man robbing a bank here, then called Fobes so he could see, too, that the man was robbing the bank, he’d do something,” remarked Billy, as the lads returned to the hotel. “I’ll tell you what he’d do,” growled Paul Jones. “He’d say—‘now from the standpoint of the law, maybe that man is going to commit a crime. From the standpoint of the law, he better go a little careful or I’ll tell his mother on him.’” All of which might be taken to indicate that Chief Fobes was not as great a man in the minds of the four boys as he was in his own. Still, something might be said on both sides of this subject, quite as Phil Way now remarked, but the conversation was abruptly dropped. “No news yet?” asked Mr. Wagg. The lads had just reached the hotel again. “None of the car, but—” and then they told the landlord of the killing of Scottie. Confidentially they intimated their belief that John Smith or “Pickem” might know something of the affair. “Very strange,” mused Mr. Wagg. “He checked out—paid his bill and left—last night. He said he was leaving on the ten o’clock train east. Seemed put out because the party he had been expecting in to see him had not come. But he left no word—no address for mail, or anything.” The hotel proprietor was not at all pleased with the indifference of Chief Fobes. The boys had told him of all that took place at the garage. “Yet of course,” said he, “it might make a difference if you lived here. There’d be quite a little expense to find out who killed the dog and, besides, the thieves, if it was thieves who did it, didn’t get anything. It doesn’t seem to me, now really, that this new trouble has anything to do with your lost automobile, and I take it that that’s the main thing, after all.” To this the boys agreed and, eager to put into execution Phil’s plan to telephone to all the larger cities east and west, to get some trace of the Big Six, if possible, they started for the telephone office. “But we can’t all telephone,” said Phil. “Who will look after burying Scottie? And who will go to Ferndale in the Torpedo and take back the pick and shovel to the blacksmith? Even if he did say we might have them as long as we liked, they should be toted home to-day.” Billy and Paul volunteered for the work mentioned. With the cold, stiff body of poor Scottie covered over with muslin in the tonneau, they started the stray automobile again toward the lonely South Fork and Ferndale. Where the dog’s burial place should be had been a problem. Willie Creek suggested a wooded knoll where some evergreens grew, not far beyond the branching of the road. This place the two boys reached in due time. It seemed to be quite what they sought. Overhead the always green branches would sing a gentle requiem in the breeze the whole year through. The thick, emerald foliage would protect the little grave below, both from the violence of winter’s storms and the heat of the summer sun. The solemn task was not a pleasant one. They wrapped the clean, new muslin around the body that in life had been so lithe, so strong, so active and so handsome, and gently placed it in the soft, cool ground. After the beautiful custom of the Grand Army of the Republic they put bits of evergreen in the grave, in token of unceasing remembrance of their dead comrade. Slowly they filled in the earth. “We’ll come back some day—some day when we’ve at last got out of this awful ocean of bad luck we seem to be in, and we’ll put up a little stone to mark the grave,” said Billy. “If ever a dog deserved it, Scottie does. I only wish we knew to whom he rightly belonged before Mr. Knight ever saw him. They’d like to hear, I think, that he was a hero, whether they cast him off or not, or even if he was a runaway.” Going on toward Ferndale, the little town two or three miles beyond where the Big Six was ditched, Billy and Paul again deeply felt the lonely influence of the unfrequented road. Even in the bright sunshine the old mill-pond, the mill, the big, empty icehouse, the weeping willows near them—all seemed to tell of that dreadful tragedy of many years ago. The boys both noticed as they passed how the road’s bank sloped down, and their active imaginations plainly pictured the frightened horses, the overturned carriage and the flood of the great, dark pond closing over the young man and his mother, whose sad story Willie Creek had told them. Farther on, at the spot where all their own troubles had had their beginning, the two lads stopped. Filled with vain regrets they looked again all about the place where the Six went down. But if they expected to make any new discovery, they were disappointed. The road was dry now. The broken fence rails still lay at the foot of the embankment. The trampled grass and weeds still told of what had happened, but no one had been near; no human creature, it was to be believed, had visited the scene since the boys last saw it. Returning to their car, the friends soon reached the house where they had stopped to make inquiry that first day of their trouble—the house where lived the lonely, old man, all his thoughts in the days of long ago. They now knew the story of the faded dwelling, the crumbling condition of every structure. Curiously they glanced about, thinking they might see the lonely, old gentleman and give him a friendly salute—just a hand thrown up for an instant—as they passed. Ah, there he was! Seated in the kitchen doorway, he saw the machine even before Paul and Billy saw him. Their wave of a hand seemed to please him, and he waved a beckoning signal in return. Billy jumped down and walked up to see if something was wanted. “No, no!” the old man replied, far more pleasantly than at that former time. He meant only to acknowledge their greeting, he said. Then he asked if the owner of the runaway car had been found. This led Billy to tell all about the misfortune that had followed the picking up of the strange automobile. The farmer ruefully shook his head. There were many days together that no vehicle went along this road, in these latter years, he said. He could hardly understand how so strange a thing should happen almost at his door. And he had been disturbed in other ways. Only last night, as he sat in the kitchen door, he had seen a crouching figure in the moonlight slip from one tree to another. It was after midnight. Visitors he little expected to have at any time, much less at such an hour. So he called out, “Hello, there!” The figure hastened away and he saw it no more. “It fretted me some,” said the old gentleman slowly, “but I didn’t see anything more, clean to daylight.” Somehow the picture of the aged, unhappy man sitting all night in the kitchen door, as his imagination presented it, touched Billy’s sympathies deeply. He asked if Mr. Peek would not like to take a little ride in the car to Ferndale. They were coming back at once. It would take but a little while, he urged. With something more like a smile than had been seen on his face for many a year, the old man said he never had ridden in an automobile, and would be glad to go. He climbed up to the front seat beside Paul. Billy told him it was the more comfortable place to ride. And plainly Mr. Peek enjoyed the trip. He was quite silent but his deep, pain-marked eyes lighted up noticeably. “It’s a grand thing to be young,” said he, at last. Neither blacksmith nor storekeeper at Ferndale had heard the slightest inquiry for the runaway automobile, which was not a runaway at all at the time it passed through that village the previous Friday. Nor had they heard anything which might cast light upon the theft of the Big Six. “You’ll find that whoever had this Torpedo car is the same party that hooked your machine,” said the blacksmith. “Stands to reason. Wherever could he have disappeared to, if it ain’t so?” “I’m afraid you’re on the wrong track,” smiled Billy, a little sadly. “Chief Fobes, at Griffin, says positively that the two things—this lost machine on the one hand, and the stealing of our car on the other—have no connection with each other.” “Matter of opinion!” spoke the blacksmith warmly. And then as if he scarcely endorsed Willie Creek’s high opinion of Mr. Fobes’ ability, he added: “And I’ll put my judgment against his’n any day.” Arranging with their friends to telephone them at the American House immediately should there be any development at Ferndale concerning either car, the two boys turned toward Griffin. They stopped at his lonely, cheerless home to leave Mr. Peek. His thankful appreciation of the ride made them glad of the little kindness they had been able to show him. Neither lad thought to attach importance to the old man’s account of his being disturbed by prowlers. It was Phil who saw significance in this story as, at dinner, Billy and Paul told all that had taken place with them. “It’s a mighty mysterious business,” declared Way. “Don’t you see it? Here’s an automobile,—quite likely a stolen automobile, at that—abandoned and left to run itself on a lonely road. No one can discover what became of the driver of that car. He was certainly driving when the machine left Ferndale. Three miles further on, and near the old Peek place, he is missing. Now isn’t it likely that the same man is still sneaking around in that neighborhood?” “Well, anyhow, we’re getting off the main track again,” Billy returned. “We’d like to know where the Torpedo belongs, but it’s a heap more important that we keep on the trail of our own machine.” “Yes, that’s so,” Phil soberly assented. “It’s certainly strange that all my telephoning went for nothing. The police and all the big garages from Albany to Buffalo, I should say, have a description of our car, and yet not a sign of her has been discovered any place.” “There’s a long distance telephone call for Mr. Way,” announced the voice of Mr. Wagg, the landlord. CHAPTER II THE SEARCH IS CONTINUED It is much to be feared that three certain young gentlemen finished their dinner with unbecoming haste in order to join more quickly the fourth young gentleman summoned to the long distance telephone. “Why, it was dad! Called up clear from Lannington!” announced Phil, coming from the telephone booth, perspiring but pleased. “They all got our letters, just a little while ago, and there must have been a general powwow all about us and the car right away. They fixed it up that dad should call us. And they’re mighty interested. Think we haven’t acted fast enough, and all that. Want us to offer a reward—get busy—travel around—not lose so much time just staying here. And if we can’t get some news by Wednesday, they’ll either come on here or send a detective from Chicago or somewhere.” “It’ll cost a raft of money,” murmured MacLester. “But we’ve been too afraid of spending a little,” Billy answered. “Over four dollars’ worth of telephoning in one morning!” ejaculated Paul, forcibly. He did not like criticism. “Just the same, it feels good to know there’s somebody back of us. Of course we knew there was, anyway, but to have them get together and then telephone clear here—it’s mighty encouraging,” spoke Phil. “Now we can’t let them think we aren’t capable of getting out of this pickle by ourselves, and we don’t want them to hold a convention here. The answer is, get busy! So what are we going to do?” “Well, what are we going to do?” This from Paul, as if he would say that everything possible to do had been done. “Why, there’s one thing that seemed like a good suggestion,” said Phil, “and that is that we look in other places—get on the train, get in touch with the police and the auto clubs and garages in different likely places, personally.” “It’s reasonable, and the thing to do,” declared Worth with emphasis. “Phil, why can’t you and Dave go to Albany or Rochester this very day? Stop off at Syracuse. Go up to Pittsfield, too? Paul and I can watch and hunt around here and follow up what poor little clues we’ve got.” “Clues? We have no clues!” spoke MacLester, moodily, “unless Hipp and Earnest are the ones. I’ve come to the conclusion that those fellows lied about seeing a man in a raincoat. Who else saw him? Don’t we know that young Earnest can lie like a beggar? Is Hipp any better?” “But there’s the raincoat! Saw it ourselves!” Billy argued. “Oh, that might belong to anybody! Plenty of old raincoats lying around,” persisted David. “I’m afraid you’re on the wrong track, Mack,” Phil Way urged quietly. Then immediately he added: “We must look up trains at once. Billy’s plan may not be very promising but, goodness, we can’t sit around and wait for the car to come to us!” So the agreement was made, quite as Worth proposed. Dave and Phil had just time to catch the 1:24 train—one of the few fast trains that stopped at Griffin—and they promised to telegraph from Albany the same night, if they found anything worth reporting. “I am glad we are making a start toward something, anyway,” Worth remarked, when he and Paul had waved good-bye to the two on the train, and turned toward the hotel again. “Tell you what, though, Bill! Let’s just keep right on the job every minute, ourselves, and maybe we can surprise the fellows—get hold of something awfully important.” Paul was pretty serious. “Sure!” said Billy. Then came the stumbling block. It was all very well to say “keep on the job,” but just what to do that might be worth while was another problem. “Funny we never heard a word from that ‘A. W. Kull, Harkville, New York,’ if our telegram was ever delivered there,” said Worth, thinking aloud, somewhat later. “Let’s ask the office here to find out what became of our message. It won’t cost anything.” “Oh, gravy! That has nothing to do with us! It’s the Six we’re after, Bill!” But notwithstanding this objection, the Griffin telegraph office was asked for the information. The operator kindly offered to send a service message, as it is called, desiring the Harkville office to report on the matter. Harkville replied in due time. The message to “A. W. Kull” was delivered at his residence. Why it was not answered the telegraph people did not know, of course. During the afternoon the boys also met Chief Fobes. With his stick under his arm, he leaned against a railing at the Bank building, eating peanuts. “Nothin’ doin’,” was his reply to their inquiry. “Ain’t likely to be,” he added, discouragingly. “It ain’t our luck, somehow. It may be here or any place around here that something will happen, but of course the gentry don’t stay in these smaller places, and it’s always in the bigger towns that they’re nabbed if they don’t get away altogether.” “Oh, yes, I see,” said Billy Worth, but when he and Paul had walked on, he remarked: “No, it is not Mr. Fobes’ luck to catch anything. I reckon he banks more on luck than he does on work, though.” “‘From the standpoint of the law,’” grinned Jones. But then lest he and Worth should fall into the same error, he said briskly, “But come on, Bill, we’ll have to hustle if we’re going to find anything.” Meanwhile Dave and Phil were approaching Albany. On the train they mapped out their general plan of work. Phil was to interview the police officials while Dave made inquiries at the headquarters of the automobile club. Then, together, they would visit the central garages. The outlying establishments they would call up by telephone, they decided. Surely, every automobile, stolen or otherwise, must have gasoline. Somewhere, then, it might be reasonably expected, trace of the Big Six would surely be discovered. It seems likely, and probably is true, that the boys failed to appreciate the great number of cars constantly going and coming through all such large cities as Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland and the like. Living in a much smaller place, where tourists from a distance, especially those with licenses from other states, were quickly noticed, they did not understand that machines from far and near are so numerous upon the great motor thoroughfares that they attract scarcely passing notice. Disappointment followed disappointment as Phil and Dave pursued their task. The fact that the police department had a perfect description of their car and the assurance of the lieutenant, with whom Phil talked, that every patrolman had the number of the stolen machine, were the only bits of encouragement they found. “Didn’t ye have insurance against theft?” asked a pleasant young fellow at a new garage not far from the capitol. “Ought to have a fire and theft insurance policy,” he declared, “then you let someone else do the worrying.” “Too late to think of it now, I’m afraid,” said Phil with a forlorn smile. “That’s true enough,” said the other, “but I was just thinking how lucky a fellow considers himself when he does have insurance in a case of this kind. There was an illustration of it up state just this spring. Man had a new car. Used it just a little, over winter. In April it was stolen and it never was found. He got a check for pretty nearly all he paid for it because he had insurance. He didn’t have to lose any sleep, you see.” “Also, you may be able to sell him another car, because he has the money to pay for one,” suggested Dave, his eyes twinkling. “Now you’re trying to jolly me,” returned the young man good-humoredly. “But I didn’t mean it that way. Fact is, the man was away up at Harkville—’way out of our territory for Torpedoes.” “Hello, now!” exclaimed Way, eagerly. “Was there a Torpedo stolen in Harkville, recently?” “Not lately. Two months ago,” the other answered. “Who lost it?” And again Way glanced sharply at Dave. The latter was listening to every word but taking care to betray no unusual interest. “H—m—m—Hull, Kull—why, that’s it! Kull was his name. But your car was not a Torpedo, was it?” If the young man thought that in this question he guessed the reason for Phil’s wish to know more of the incident mentioned, he guessed wrong, of course. But unwilling to tell just why he was interested, until he should have had time to think, Phil gave him no enlightenment. “No,” answered Way, “the Torpedo people don’t build a six-cylinder car, do they?” “That’s right, yours was a six,” said the other. “Makes you so much the greater loser, with no insurance.” “What luck did the Harkville man have finding his car? Someone must have looked for it even if he did have insurance.” “Guess they did look for it,” said the garage man forcibly. “First Kull and the police, then the insurance people and detectives, and believe me, insurance companies don’t care how much it costs to find a stolen car if they’ve had to pay for it. They do get stung though, and last I heard, Kull had his money, for his car was never found, high or low. Strange case! Never a clue to go by. A padlock pried off Kull’s little garage and the machine gone and—there you are.” “Strange!” muttered Phil, but he was thinking too, that, though this was exceedingly interesting information, he must not allow it to take his thoughts from the loss that meant so much more to himself and friends, personally. So, thanking the young man, he and Dave left the garage. “Why didn’t you tell him about the Torpedo? She’s the Harkville car as sure as you’re born!” spoke MacLester, immediately the two were beyond hearing. “It might have done no harm, and again—there’s the trouble! I wanted to talk it over with you. It seems small and mean, but still we didn’t pay out railroad fare and all that to help find the owner of that Torpedo. We wired Kull and did our part. He may be in Griffin right now to claim the property.” “More likely he doesn’t care. He got insurance money, so why bother any more about it? That would explain the whole thing—the whole reason why our telegram was never answered,” Dave reasoned. “It looks that way,” Phil replied. “And our chasing the Torpedo is chasing right away from the car we want to find. Blame it all! We don’t seem to get anywhere. Here we go stumbling into things about the Torpedo but no clues at all to the Six!” All of which, and the disgruntled tone, were both unusual words and manner in young Mr. Way. The day had long since closed. The boys found a comfortable hotel and went to bed, leaving a call for half-past five as the train for Pittsfield left Albany at six-thirty. The distance was not great and as several important automobile routes branched out from the Massachusetts town, it was considered a likely source of information. Tired as they were, Phil and Dave must and did discuss at length the day’s developments before they fell asleep. A sense of duty that they should report at once the apparent fact that they had found the stolen Harkville car, weighed somewhat upon their minds. “But what if we do? What happens?” they reasoned. “We are put out just that much in hunting for the Six. We lose time being called as witnesses, and a lot of botheration, just when we need every minute, and nothing much is gained. A few days will make no difference with regard to the Torpedo, long ago given up as beyond recovery.” And so resolving to stick to the more important business first, but to report the finding of the stolen Harkville car just so soon as details of identification and the law’s red tape would not be so inconvenient, they put the subject aside. Thanks to Chief Fobes, in part, and also thanks to their own error, in part, the boys were making a costly mistake by believing the trail of the Torpedo had no connection with the theft of their own car. Or so it would seem, would it not? And yet, even if the thieves who first stole the Harkville car were the same who, later on, made off with the Big Six, what could be gained by going back along the route to deliver the one recovered machine instead of pursuing diligently the more recently stolen property? “We’ll never see our car again; that I know,” said Dave MacLester, glum and despondent. He pulled on his shoes in the stuffy little hotel room next morning, as if life were to him a barren, barren waste. “It’s mostly the time of day, Mack,” said Way good-humoredly. “Half-past five has a mighty blue appearance after you’ve been eating strange grub, and staying up till midnight the day before. You’ll brighten up like the shining sun if we can only get out where there is such a thing—that and get hold of a little news to-day.” “We haven’t got hold of any yet,” asserted MacLester, not a bit more cheerfully. And his words were the truth, cold and harsh, as the truth may sometimes be, beyond a doubt. CHAPTER III MR. BILLY WORTH DOES SOME THINKING “Hello! What’s all the feverish bustle about? Good news, I hope!” This from Mr. Wagg as Billy and Paul, very warm and very red, hustled into that gentleman’s hotel and suddenly stopped, as if they had at that moment forgotten what they came for. “No,—not exactly,” said Billy. “Fact is, we have no news at all and it just makes us feel that we’ve got to get busy; and that’s what we’ve been doing—hustling up here as hard as ever we could.” “What for? What scent are you on now?” asked the landlord, peering over his glasses as he leaned upon the register counter. There was a trace of amusement in his voice. “That’s just it,” put in Paul. “We don’t know just what scent we are on but, by thunder! we’ve got to get some news of that car!” “Well, I suppose that nothing succeeds like determination,” observed Mr. Wagg kindly. “Still, there’s a lot o’ misdirected energy in the world.” With a sigh he sat down and resumed the afternoon nap which the swift entrance of the boys had broken in upon. A large part of Griffin seemed to be occupied quite as was Landlord Wagg. How very quiet the little town was this tranquil June afternoon! “Ginger! I’d just like to take a nap myself; but we’ve got to keep busy,” mused Billy. The two were seated in big armchairs of the hotel office. “Our basket, Willie Creek’s lamp and that old raincoat are in our room. Mr. Hipp brought them and the porter carried them up. Told me so just after dinner,” suggested Paul. “We might tote Willie’s lamp over to the garage.” Straightway up the stairs dashed the two boys. Yes, there at the foot of the bed the articles in question were deposited. Again the boys examined the lunch hamper inside and out. Again they searched pockets, lining, every shred of the muddy, dirty, wrinkled coat. How freshly the garment, splashed with the rain and the thick pools of the road, brought back to Billy’s mind the dismal afternoon when first they ventured upon the lonely South Fork! Again, in mental vision, he saw the Torpedo come over the hill, saw the impossibility of passing the machine if it did not quickly turn out! Then he recalled—how vividly!—the dreadful scene, the Big Six ditched, the rain, the heavy, mist-laden air, the gloom, of approaching darkness. And in the same train of thought, as he went forward, he seemed to see the man Hipp and Earnest had told of seeing, marching stolidly along the wet road, carrying the basket stolen from the Six, wearing this very raincoat and on his head a low, soft cap, his top boots or leggins splashed with mud, the rain pelting him till he stumbled as he walked. How easily the lad’s imagination drew for him the picture Alfred Earnest and his friend Hipp described! Then suddenly—— “For the love of cats, Paul Jones, I am one large punkin head! And so are you! And so are all of us!” Quite naturally young Mr. Jones looked up suddenly, startled not a little by the extraordinary accusation. “Wh——” Paul’s intended response was violently interrupted. Knocking his own head with one pair of knuckles, Billy brought those of his other hand down forcibly on his friend’s tawny hair, at the same time and not once, but repeatedly. Not until Jones escaped beyond reach, which he did by tumbling ungracefully backward over a chair, as he retreated from the mysterious attack, did Worth explain himself. “That man—the drunken fellow we saw Fobes arrest on Saturday night—you remember? He’s the fellow who wore this raincoat, stole our basket and—who knows?—maybe the car! Plain as daylight! Why didn’t we see it before? The cap, the leather leggins all caked with mud—I couldn’t see it all plainer if he stood in this very room!” For a few seconds Paul was lost in a confusion of thoughts, but he extricated himself at last, saying: “Thunder! I do remember that that fellow Fobes got wore leggins—yes, and the cap! But—why, a lot of people wear ’em for fishing trips and——” “Yes, and chauffeurs wear ’em,” put in Billy, heatedly. “I say, come on! We’ll have a look and we’ll get something out of this, you bet!” Whether Paul would or would not wager, however, he did not say. What he did reply was: “Honest, Bill, I hope there’s something to it, but—anyhow, let’s not be too sure!” Chief Fobes, dozing the early afternoon away in his dingy office, sleepily called to the boys, “Come in!” They entered. Needless to say, also, the haste and earnestness in Billy’s manner fully awakened the officer of the law rather more abruptly than often happened. “We want to find out about a fellow you arrested Saturday evening. Wore a cap and high boots or leggins,” spoke young Mr. Worth in a single breath. “Soaked for ten days in the cooler,” said Mr. Fobes, indifferently. By which it will be understood that the village magistrate had imposed upon the man a fine of ten days in jail. “Well, who is he? Can we see him?” Worth continued rapidly. “He’s just a bum, I guess. I don’t know him and—well, you can ask Willie Creek whether I know everybody around here or whether I don’t. He was hanging around all Saturday afternoon and drinking. By night I had to pinch him.” With a show of real interest Chief Fobes now heard the story Billy told and the belief that the man in the lockup could throw light on the disappearance of the Big Six. Slowly, very slowly, nevertheless, the officer rose, yawned and led the way to the corridor below, so conducting the boys to a group of steel cells in a basement at the rear of the building. The man they sought was lying on an iron bunk. He stepped forward when Mr. Fobes called sharply, “Here, you! Step up!” quite as if the unfortunate were a refractory horse. “Might I ask you a question?” began Billy. He and Paul were both keeping pretty close to Mr. Fobes as the prisoner, still in the mud-stained boots and garments, approached the bars. “I’ll do the talkin’,” put in the officer bluntly. Then to the man who peered out from the gloomy cell, “What was you doing on the South Fork road last—last Friday?” “I don’t know anything about any South Fork road. What ye givin’ us? I come in here from Rochester, hittin’ the road an’ lookin’ fer a job in the country, an’ I told the judge the same thing, didn’t I?” “It don’t go, Billy. You can’t throw any bluff here,” said Fobes with an air of familiarity, but shaking his head coldly, too. “You was seen on the South Fork road an’ there’s an automobile man lookin’ for you. Guess he wants to give you a raincoat you lost somewhere.” This, of course, was just the kind of talk that Mr. Fobes himself had termed a “bluff” and, in the vernacular, nothing else. Whether the prisoner thought so or otherwise, for a few seconds he made no reply. Then as if feeling his way carefully, he said: “Somebody lookin’ for me, eh? Tell ’im where I am. Or mebbe he knows it.” “It ain’t no go, I tell you,” said Fobes sharply. “There’s a little matter of a patent dinner basket on you straight. Swipin’ grub from boys, too! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself? You don’t happen to remember what you left in the raincoat, do ye?” Billy and Paul were far from approving this kind of questioning. Yet they could see the object of Chief Fobes, which was to frighten and confuse the prisoner by making him believe a great deal was known about him, thereby leading him into admissions that would pave the way toward gaining a complete confession from him. “I don’t know nothin’ about a coat, boss; but who’s lookin’ fer me?” called the one behind the bars as the officer and the boys started to move away. “You’ll find that out quick enough,” said Fobes with a harsh laugh. But he did not pause and led the way to his own office again. “Now,” said he, “you have seen how we go about it. We’ve set the yeast to workin’. He’ll be more ready to let out a little by the time I take his supper in to him.” Chief Fobes was evidently much pleased with himself but he was not prepared for the rather unusual incident that followed. “Where’s the kid that said might he ask me a question?” inquired the prisoner when the officer visited his cell again. “I want to see ’im if I can, boss!” Billy was called only after Mr. Fobes had failed to extract from the man any information whatever. Cautioning the lad to tell the prisoner little or nothing, the policeman, who was also turnkey, it will have been noticed, took Worth into the lockup and left him. “What was yer question, bub! Mebbe I might answer it,” said the fellow. He held a bar of the cell in each hand and leaned forward on his elbows. His face, pressed between the steel rods, had a really hideous look. “Where’s the Big Six automobile that dinner basket came from? Now you tell me that and you’ll make a friend. You seem to need one all right.” Billy was surprised by his own boldness in this speech. The fact was the man’s manner had quite startled him. The prisoner laughed in a coarse guffaw. Abruptly checking himself, he said in a whisper: “You get me out o’ here. Swipe the keys—any old way! Pass me in a saw—just so’s I get out to-night, an’ I’ll show you where you can find that automobile, good as ever she was. And—” the fellow swore venomously and wickedly—“you blab this an’ I’ll get ye fer it if I go to the chair!” “Might as well be reasonable,” spoke the boy, frightened by the very nature of the proposal, but scarcely showing it. “I’ll help you get out if it means just paying a fine for you, if you can do all you say, but——” “Do all I say? Don’t you think I couldn’t?” Billy hardly knew what to say. For a few seconds he made no answer. “Aw, I was just a kiddin’ ye,” the fellow said with a coarse laugh again, as if he had quite suddenly changed his mind. “Oh! All right!” the boy replied indifferently. And then, moved by a sudden impulse, whose origin he could never have explained, he stepped close to the cell, “Mr. Smith, of Buffalo, has been staying at our hotel. Maybe you’d like to see him,” he said in a low tone. “He was looking for someone and I shouldn’t be surprised from what I saw of him that you are the man.” In general it was a chance shot—a random word without particular aim, such as Fobes had used in his questioning, but Billy fully believed that the remark struck home. “Say, kid, say, on the level is he the party His Nibbs was talkin’ about? Look ’e here, bub, you play fair with the old man that’s down an’ out. You won’t lose nothin’ by it. They’s none of ’em plays fair any more or I wouldn’t be here. You slip them very words to Smith fer me, and don’t ye breathe it to His Nibbs.” “Where’s our machine?” persisted Worth soberly. Again a vile oath came from the dirty lips pressed between the bars. The prisoner’s pleading manner had changed to anger. “Jest like ’em all, ain’t ye?” he said with a vicious sneer in his tone. Then he walked away. Nothing Billy could say served to draw another word from him and that young gentleman could only take his leave. This he did with the words: “We are over at the American hotel. You may want to send for us when you get a little sense.” “How was I to know what to say to him? Wish Phil had been there,” said Billy earnestly, telling Paul all about the interview later. “Gee whizz! We’re getting warm, though, I’ll bet!” cried Jones with enthusiasm. “If it wasn’t just guesswork that Pickem or Smith—whatever his real name is—knows something about this man in the lockup, who in turn knows something about our car! Pickem certainly does know something about the Torpedo, but he’s gone. Even if he might help us, it’s too late.” The boys spent the evening trying to realize, with Willie Creek’s help, some value from the day’s developments. They were late getting to bed and still sleeping soundly when Phil and Dave, the following morning, were well on the road to Pittsfield. And now to return to the latter pair of eager searchers, it may be briefly stated that their day’s work was without results. Except that they had made the theft of the Big Six the more widely known, they felt their efforts in Pittsfield to have been a total failure. At nine o’clock on Tuesday night they were on a Pullman, their tickets reading “Syracuse.” There is in the city named, as everyone knows, an automobile club of more than usual excellence. Whether it be in helping a pair of boys toward the recovery of a lost car, or the more general work of erecting road signs, mapping off the best detours around road construction work and informing the public of the same, nothing is too small or too large a task to receive intelligent attention. And it was a fortunate chance, therefore, that Phil and Dave chose Syracuse to be the scene of their next endeavors. Very early Wednesday morning the two boys began their inquiries—began a day of work and developments, following rapidly one upon another, and more startling at their close than the strangest dreams may often be. CHAPTER IV DETECTIVE BOB RACK HAS SOMETHING TO SAY To the police officials of Syracuse, Phil and Dave first directed their steps in that city. The result was as usual. The department had a report that such-and-such a car was stolen. The officers would be pretty likely to discover it if the machine should appear in the town. “But you better see the Automobile club. They are a big help in everything where autos are concerned,” advised the police captain. At a centrally located garage the boys stopped to repeat the same questions they had asked so many times before. The man in charge had heard the story of a car mysteriously disappearing from the South Fork road beyond Port Greeley, but that was all. “You can’t do better than see the Automobile club,” he added, however. “They are the ones to get you the right dope if there’s any way to get it.” Although it was still too early to expect to find a secretary or other officer present, the boys decided to visit the club headquarters at once. A pleasant-faced man was reading a motor journal as they entered. To him they stated the purpose of their call. “By George, that’s interesting!” said the stranger thoughtfully. “Wait a minute!” Reaching for a desk phone, the pleasant-faced man was soon in touch with the person he desired. Briefly he told of the two young callers and their errand. “All right, that’s the ticket!” he said, after some conversation over the wire, and hung up the receiver. Asking the boys to accompany him, the agreeable stranger piloted them to an office in a large brick building where he introduced them to a gentleman who seemed hardly more than a boy in appearance, though his age was probably twenty-five. His name was Freeland Cape. (“A regular Cape of Good Hope to us,” Phil said afterward.) “Sit down,” said Mr. Cape to the young strangers, as their escort left them. Thanking him, Phil and Dave accepted the proffered chairs. Without ado Mr. Cape was informed of the loss of the Six and the search thus far so unsuccessful. “Queerest affair I ever heard of,” was the young man’s comment. “But tell me more of this Torpedo car. There was a Torpedo stolen in Harkville—(Phil and Dave exchanged glances)—an extraordinary case. And of course it is evident that the parties who, for some reason, abandoned the machine you found, grabbed your car directly afterward.” “It would seem so, but it is hardly the case,” put in Phil quickly. “We have had that notion pretty well pounded out of us by different people, especially by Mr. Fobes, the policeman at Griffin. ‘Two separate transactions,’ were his words and he made it pretty plain. And of course we were, and are, more anxious to locate our own car than anything else. So all along, ‘two separate transactions’ we have had right in mind.” Young Mr. Cape scratched the crown of his head with one forefinger while he thought for a few seconds. “There never is a theory so exclusively inclusive but some other theory can be suggested,” said he. “I may be wrong. Without knowing anything about the Torpedo you found, I’d say the two separate facts constitute a plausible supposition. But I do know and you know now, that the machine you found was probably the one stolen from Harkville. Who stole it? We do not know, but it is pretty plain that no one other than the original thieves had the car on that South Fork road, wherever they may have been with it since first it disappeared. Now that lands in the very vicinity of your car, at the time of your loss, the fellows who stole one automobile. And, having stolen one, no doubt they would just as lief take another and better one. The man who was seen with your basket may have been only a tramp. If your suitcases were left behind, the basket was thrown out, as well, at the same place or near by.” “Any way you put it, though,” suggested MacLester, his brow puckered in thought, “we are left right in the middle of it all, again. Go one way, and we might find who owned the Torpedo. Go the other way—and we stand a better chance, I should think, of finding our own Six and the thieves. Whether they stole both cars, or simply ours, isn’t a question in the case at all just yet.” “Yes,” assented Mr. Cape, “but you must go back along the road, or wherever you may have to go, for the things you need to aid your search. You can’t unsnarl a fish line, or anything else, without you have one free end with which to make a start.” Phil became nervous and uneasy as so much time was being consumed in discussion, interesting to him though the talk was. “Tell us just what you’d do, Mr. Cape,” he said earnestly. “Advice is dangerous in a case like this. You may do as I would do and lose by it. Still, I’ll venture a suggestion. You have gotten together, bit by bit, a lot of valuable facts. Right here in this building is a detective. He works for big people. Why not talk with him? If that Torpedo is the stolen Harkville machine you will win the help of one of the largest insurance companies in the job of capturing the thieves and at the same time, it is quite certain, recovering your own car.” “That’s the plan!” exclaimed Phil eagerly. “The very thing!” said Dave. In a moment Mr. Cape had the telephone in his hand. Within five minutes the boys were in the office of Detective Robert Rack, or plain “Bob” Rack, as his name so often appears in the newspapers. Mr. Rack was a ready listener to the whole story in detail as the boys told it. Quietly he referred to a card index a stenographer brought him. “I don’t think this work need cost you young men a copper,” said he. His voice was soft as a June zephyr. His neat business suit, calm, gray eyes and hair just tinged with gray, made him appear a great deal more like a successful salesman of some kind than a detective—than such ideas of detectives as the boys had hitherto had, at least. “Not a copper cent,” said Bob Rack, looking up from the card index. “And how would you like to be reimbursed for your trouble and expense?” These were quite the most pleasant words that had fallen upon David’s or Philip’s ears for some time. In substance they said as much. “I do not doubt the Torpedo you picked up is one we have long wanted to get trace of. The insurance people offer four hundred dollars for the recovery of the car. For the arrest and conviction of the thieves they will give five hundred dollars more. So then, if your party—four of you in all, are there?—wish simply to turn over the Torpedo you may do so. I’ll tell you who is to be notified. There’s one hundred dollars each for you. Or if you’d like my office to help you, both with the Torpedo and your own car, I’ll make this proposition: to go myself, or send a good man with you on this case, and whatever the expenses and whatever the receipts may amount to they all shall be shared equally.” “Bob, you’re a brick!” cried Mr. Cape, who had been an interested listener. Then he said good-bye, assuring the boys that their problem was in the best of hands. Heartily they thanked him. “But there’s some doubt about that car in Griffin being the one stolen at Harkville, isn’t there?” reasoned Phil Way as the facts in hand were further discussed with Mr. Rack. “Why did that man Kull never answer our telegram?” “Ah, that is a thing to remember! I asked myself the same question the moment you said the telegram was not answered, a little time ago,” smiled the detective. “It would be a dreadful thing, I am sure, for a man to show no interest in the recovery of his stolen car, simply because he had received the price of it in insurance.” The boys could see Mr. Rack meant something more than he said. They thought they knew the thought he entertained. But he went on at once, more seriously: “There is a great deal more to this matter than simply getting your machine for you or restoring the Torpedo, or I am badly mistaken.” Phil’s eyes glistened. Davy sat very still and I am afraid his mouth was open without reason other than for his wonder and interest. “So,” concluded Mr. Robert Rack, very calmly and gently, as he had spoken all along, “suppose you leave the whole matter with me for the present. You better stay in town until to-night or maybe to-morrow, in case I should want you. Just now I wish you to do only one other thing, but that is very important. Telegraph or telephone your friends in Griffin to hold the Torpedo. Don’t let it get out of their hands under any circumstances. If they ride out in it, they should not leave the car unattended anywhere for one moment.” As if treading on air, such was their elation, the two boys were leaving the office. “Oh, just a moment!” called Mr. Rack quietly. “Was the name ‘Fielderson Brothers’ on the cans of paint found in the car you picked up, do you remember?” “Yes, but they are the manufacturers. Their paint can be bought anywhere,” Phil replied. “Yes,” the detective answered, apparently the least bit amused. With eager interest and pleasure Phil and Dave composed a telegram to Billy and Paul. After many efforts the following is the message they completed and sent:
With the telegram safely dispatched, the boys found a pleasant, inexpensive hotel where they engaged a room. They went to a restaurant for dinner, then resolved to write some letters, first to the folks at home, assuring them of the hopeful outlook, then to Billy and Paul who would be keen to learn all that had taken place. A letter would reach them the following morning. “I would rather have telephoned,” said Phil. “They’ll be wild for more news after getting our telegram, but we’ve spent so much money on long distance calls and railroad fare, to boot, the last two days!” And in addition to Phil’s remark I am able to state, in confidence, that the funds of the Auto Boys would soon need replenishing if many more railroad tickets must be bought or other considerable bills paid. For it will be remembered there were four lusty appetites to be provided for, to say nothing of the extra expenses they were meeting. The possessors of two of the “vast voids” (one of Paul’s names for the four appetites) found meal-time less pleasant now, however, than when Phil and Dave were with them. Indeed, Paul accused Worth of being absolutely “grumpy,” whatever that may be, as they sat at breakfast in the American House on Tuesday morning. This was the day Phil and Dave were in Pittsfield, it will be recalled. “And I’ll bet we’ve done more than they have,” said Paul, referring to the absent ones. He was thinking of the man in the town jail and of Billy’s talk with that untractable person. “I did think we had made quite a start,” said Billy, droopingly. “But what’s come of it? Nothing!” “Cheer up, cheer up!” chirped Jones blithely. “We’ll get busy again to-day. Hurry up, too! These pancakes are made out of old burlap. I know they are! I used to think it was perfectly grand to eat in hotels and so forth but, golly! wouldn’t some fodder from home taste good right now? Honestly, I’m getting tired of burlap pancakes, puree of shavin’ soap, pincushions a la hay, fried towels and all the other strange things you get under strange names in these places. I——” But Billy said, “If we’re going to get busy, let’s do it,” and promptly he led the way out to the office. “Better see Mr. Fobes, hadn’t we?” he suggested. Just why Worth wanted to see the police officer he possibly did not know, beyond the slight chance that the man in the lockup may have had something to say to him. Yet it did happen that while the two sought Chief Fobes, the latter was seeking them. They met in front of the bank. “Our fellow in the cooler has been asking for you. He may let go of something yet if you go at him easy.” These words, addressed particularly to Billy, took the pair to the jail quite bubbling with expectancy. They fully believed the prisoner knew something of their car—believed it regardless of Willie Creek’s mild protest that the man was fooling them. Again Chief Fobes escorted Worth through the dim corridor to the somewhat lighter basement cells. A window in the rear of the building was open, looking out upon a yard with trees and shrubbery. The prisoner was apparently enjoying the breeze that drifted in. “Can’t I talk to the kid a second, boss?” The one behind the bars having spoken thus, though he still turned his face toward the corridor window, Chief Fobes motioned Billy forward while he stepped back a few paces. “Say, bub, did ye see that guy? Did ye tell ’im?” For a fraction of time Worth did not understand. Then recalling more clearly the chance remark about “Smith” at the hotel, he answered, “No.” “Didn’t, eh? Why didn’t ye?” “You got mad yesterday and wouldn’t talk sense or anything else. Why should I pay any more attention to you? Tell me what you know about the car you took that motor basket from and I’ll do anything you ask that’s reasonable.” “Ye was just lyin’ to me about that man Smith, now wasn’t ye?” the man returned in a low, earnest voice, ignoring Billy’s request. And then he added as the boy hesitated, and swearing as he had done the previous day, “Aw, I was just a-kiddin’ ye—just a-kiddin’ ye to pass the time away.” |
|