The Corner House Girls on a Tour

“I should think he would be ashamed.”

“He is to be pitied,” said the boy, soberly.

“Oh, yes. I suppose so. All such men are. But for little Dot to get mixed up with a drunken man – ”

“It didn’t hurt her,” said Neale, stoutly. “And maybe it has helped him.”

Agnes took a minute to digest this; and she made no further comment. But she asked:

“How about that Joe? Doesn’t Mr. Maynard know anything about him?”

“He says not. Suppose we tell Mrs. Heard, and she’ll tell Mr. Collinger. Joe Dawson has sometimes worked for Jim Brady, the big politician. Mr. Collinger must know if Brady is one of the men who have been trying to get those maps and the papers away from him.”

“Well,” said Agnes, “I hope we can help bring those auto thieves to book.”

“Guess Mr. Collinger is more worried about his maps – if they got them.”

“Oh, Neale! suppose they should steal our car? Wouldn’t it be dreadful? We must catch them.”

Neale laughed. “You’re going to be a regular detective when you grow up, Aggie. I can see that,” he said.

“Put up the hammer, little boy,” advised Agnes. “Do you know that it has been decided when we are to start on our tour?”

“No. When?”

“Mrs. Heard telephoned that she will be ready to-morrow. We shall start some time the following day, so Ruthie just said.”

“Good!” declared the boy. “Say, Aggie! we’re bound to have a dandy time.”

“Even if we weren’t, I should be glad to get away from this place,” said the girl, suddenly a little cross.

“Why?” asked Neale O’Neil, in surprise.

“Because of that pest, Sammy Pinkney.”

“What about him?”

“He is fairly hounding us to death,” said Agnes, with a sigh.

“What about?”

“He has begged to go with us every hour – almost – since he first heard we were going on a long trip in our auto.” Then she suddenly giggled. “Oh, Neale! He has decided that it would be more fun to be an auto pirate than a salt water buccaneer of the old school.”

“One great kid that,” chuckled Neale, appreciatively.

“But he is an awful nuisance. He bothers the little girls whenever they go out of the house. He’s told his mother he’s going with us – and I suppose Mrs. Pinkney half believes we have invited him.”

“Cricky!” chuckled Neale again. “I imagine she’d be glad to get rid of him for a few weeks.”

“My, goodness, me!” exclaimed the startled Agnes. “She sha’n’t get rid of him at our expense – no, sir! I won’t hear of it. Neither will Ruth. And, besides, there isn’t going to be breathing space in that car after we all pile in – with Tom Jonah and the baggage, too.”

“I have an idea!” said Neale, wickedly, “that we ought to have an auto truck trailing us with all the furbelows and what-nots you girls will think it necessary to carry.”

“Mr. Smarty!” Agnes scoffed. “Remember we went camping last summer and we know something about what to take with us and what not to take.”

“That’s all right,” said Neale. “But the Corner House girls are not going to live under canvas this time – that is, not much. At the fancy hotels you’ll all want to cut a dash. How are you going to do it?”

Agnes laughed at him. “Don’t you suppose all that has been thought of?” she demanded. “Mrs. Heard will send a trunk, and so shall we, by express to the Polo House at Granthan. That is going to be our first ‘fancy’ hotel, as you call them. Then, when we leave there, the trunks will be shipped on to our next fashionable roosting place. But, oh, dear me! I don’t care much about the hotels. I want to be moving,” declared this very modern young American girl.

“Cricky!” grumbled Neale. “I bet if you have your way we’ll get pinched for speeding in every county in the state.”

Every waking hour thereafter, until, on the second day, the car was brought to the side gate of the Corner House premises, was a busy hour for the four Kenways and Neale O’Neil. Mrs. Heard came over with her personal baggage, for the route the party was to follow would not take them anywhere near her home. Besides, it was better to pack the car carefully before the start was made, and thus find out where every piece of baggage – as well as every passenger – was to be placed.

The car was roomy and comfortable; but bags and suitcases of all descriptions – to say nothing of an excited Newfoundland dog – were bound to occupy much space.

Neale declared he had groomed the car “to the nines” – and it looked it. It was new enough, in any case, for everything about it to shine and glisten. A good mechanician from the public garage had been over it the day before and pronounced every part in perfect working order.

“But that doesn’t mean that we can’t get a blow-out before going a mile,” growled Neale, who had worked so hard that he was rather pessimistic. “But, come on, girls, bring out the rest of the household furniture. You seem to have half the contents of the Corner House packed in already.”

Ruth calmly ignored this, and went about final arrangements in her usual capable manner. Nothing would be forgotten, nothing overlooked when Ruth Kenway was in charge.

The little girls were just as busy in their way as their sisters. Tess and Dot were too much excited and far too much taken up with their own affairs, to pay any attention to Sammy Pinkney.

But that hopeful youngster stuck to Ruth and Agnes like a burr – and a very annoying one.

“Aw, say! let a feller go!” was his mildest way of pleading for space in the automobile for his own small self. “I won’t get in your way.”

“No,” said Ruth, with the same decision she had expressed from the first. “No.”

“Aw, Aggie! you know me! If you say I can, I can.”

“You’re the biggest bother in the world, Sammy Pinkney!” declared the second oldest Corner House girl.

“Won’t bother you a mite. I’ll help. I’ll run errands – ”

“What errands, I’d like to know?” scoffed Agnes.

“Well – you’ll want somebody to run ’em when the car breaks down – ”

That settled it! Agnes would not listen to him any further.

“Say! I’ll give Dot my bicycle if you’ll let me go,” he urged on Ruth.

“I’d be afraid to have her ride it,” laughed Ruth. “The only thing you ever did give the little girls, Sammy – that goat – has been a dreadful annoyance.”

“Give us your bulldog, Sammy?” suggested Agnes, knowing that the very soul of the boy was knit to that ugly, bandy-legged beast.

“Ow!” groaned Sammy. He could not agree to that. “I tell you I’ll do anything you want me to – ”