The Corner House Girls on a Tour

“But if Brady had it stolen, why hasn’t the car been found?” Neale put in, wonderingly.

“I told you before,” said Mrs. Heard, promptly. “They expected to find those road maps. And I guess they didn’t find ’em,” she added, with a nod of satisfaction.

“You may be right, Mrs. Heard,” agreed Mr. Maynard, but evidently desirous of saying no more.

He handed the Alice-doll back to Dot, who, with Tess, had not been much interested in this discussion, of course; and he picked up his fishing rod to depart.

“I am sorry I did not happen along before you ate your luncheon,” he said, smiling. “I could have supplied you with a nice mess of yellow perch.”

“Thank you, Mr. Maynard,” said Agnes, with a naughty twinkle in her eye. “I’m afraid we should have had to refuse them, for Mrs. Heard does not approve of fishing.”

“Goodness! but I am fond of fish, just the same,” said their chaperone, honestly.

“What would you suggest as the least cruel way of capturing fish?” Mr. Maynard asked, soberly.

“How about seining them and then chloroforming each fish?” whispered Neale to Agnes.

But the widow laughed, saying to the fisherman:

“I remember my husband used to go fishing with you, Mr. Maynard. But he never brought fish into the house where I could see them till they were ready for the pan, so as not to shock me.”

“That was quite right of him, Mrs. Heard,” said Mr. Maynard, gravely. Then he turned to Dot again. “I hope you will all have a fine time on your tour – you, especially, my dear. Do – do you suppose you could spare a kiss for me – a good-bye kiss?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the generous Dot. “And I truly hope you won’t be sick again, Mr. Maynard.”

The man flushed deeply, saying:

“I have not been troubled by that sickness, my dear, since the day you were so kind to me; and – please God! – I never shall be again.”

He strode away then with a nod only to the others.

CHAPTER X – THE PASSING AUTOMOBILE

After the bustle of getting under way again had quieted down and the car was speeding merrily through the woodland and past the pleasant farms of the Oxbow Valley, Agnes began to talk eagerly to Neale O’Neil about the all-absorbing topic which occupied her mind.

“How much do you suppose Mr. Maynard really knows about the stealing of Mr. Collinger’s car?” she demanded.

“Not a thing!” said her boy friend, promptly.

“Oh, Neale!”

“No. I know Mr. Maynard. He’s a perfectly square man, I am sure. I don’t suppose he ever noticed Saleratus Joe until I called his attention to him.”

“Where do you suppose they have gone?” queried the girl, starting on another tack.

“Who?”

“That Joe and the Brady man.”

“Ask me an easier one,” laughed Neale O’Neil.

“But can’t we do anything about it if we run across them?” she cried.

“Joe and Brady?” gasped Neale, in wonder.

“Yes.”

Neale eyed her quizzically for a long half minute – that is, with one eye. The other he kept faithfully on the road ahead.

“Aggie,” he said, “you beat the world. Mucilage isn’t in it with you for sticking to a thing when your mind is once set upon it.”

“Well, I don’t care!” she pouted.

“Oh, yes you do. You evidently do care or you wouldn’t be talking about that stolen car all the time. What’s the odds where Mr. Brady and his chauffeur have gone? You don’t suppose Brady knows anything about Mr. Collinger’s machine himself, do you?”

“Of course he does! I believe he had it stolen,” cried the girl.

“And if he did, so much the more reason for his not knowing anything about what was done with the car. That’s what Mr. Maynard intimated. Brady would have no use for it. And I doubt if anybody could use it long without being arrested. Hard to hide an automobile nowadays. Unless the thieves took it away up into Canada and sold it, maybe.”

“Surely that Saleratus Joe couldn’t have done that,” rejoined Agnes, instantly, “for he couldn’t have gone there and got back so quickly.”

“Good girl. Female detective, I tell you!” chortled Neale. “But how about the other fellow?”

“Who – that awful Brady?”

“Cricky! No. They say there were two fellows in Mr. Collinger’s car when it was driven away from the court house. And maybe he – the second chap – has the car now.”

“Oh, dear me! I’d like to know,” sighed Agnes.

This first day’s journey was rather long; the smaller girls were tired by mid-afternoon. So was Sammy Pinkney, although he would not admit the fact. Tess and Dot went frankly to sleep in the tonneau; Sammy kept himself awake by asking questions of Agnes and Neale, so that they could no longer discuss the stealing of Mr. Collinger’s automobile, or any other subject of moment.

“If I ever go auto riding again with a kid of his size,” growled Neale, at last, “I’ll insist on having his question-asker extracted first.”

“Huh! What’s a ‘question-asker,’ Neale? Have I got one?” was the query that capped that climax.

The effort to reach a certain old-fashioned hotel on the road to Parmenter Lake, of which Mrs. Heard knew, was successful. Without even a minor mishap Neale brought the car to the Bristow House an hour before sunset and in plenty of time for supper.

As none of the four Corner House girls had ever slept in a hotel before, this was a new experience for them. Mrs. Heard engaged two double rooms for herself and the girls, and a third for Neale and Sammy. Tom Jonah was made comfortable in the stable yard.

The big dining-room was well filled when after they had washed, they went down to supper. The Bristow was popular despite the homely manner in which it was managed.

“Good home cooking,” Mrs. Heard said, “and simple ways. These girls who wait on us are all from the neighboring families hereabout. It is not a popular resort with the sporty class of automobilists – although I notice that occasionally one of that kind gets in here.”

Her remark was to the point, for at that very moment an example to prove the truth of it was furnished by a big man sitting alone at a small table at the end of the dining room.

“What?” he suddenly bellowed. “I can’t get a drink here?”

“Tea, coffee, milk, or soft drinks,” the waitress at that table recited, calmly. “The Bristow House is temperance.”