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.