CHAPTER I – AFTER THE GAME
“That was a hard game for Macklin to lose, fellows!”
“I should say it was, Herb.”
“He nearly pitched his head off, too. Wow! how they did come in like cannon balls!”
“And talk about curves and drops, Little Clarence was roight there wid the goods,” said a stout boy; whose freckled face, carroty hair and blue eyes, as well as the touch of brogue to his voice, told of Irish blood.
“But Jack met his hot pace, and went him one better. Clarence may be a cracker jack in the box, but he can’t just come up to good old reliable Jack Storm ways, of the high school baseball club.”
“Oh, shucks! enough of that taffy, fellows,” laughed the object of this praise, as he swung the bat he was carrying; “why, you know right well I was up against the fence when they made that ninth inning rally. They had found me with the goods on. And you know who won that game for us – our never failing, heavy pinch-hitter, Buster Longfellow. When his bat got up against the horsehide I knew it was all over but the shouting for Clarence.”
“Wasn’t he mad, though? Hurrah for Buster! He’s not built for a runner, they say, but he’s got the batting eye. That hit was a peach!”
“Thanks, George. I believe I did help Brodie dash home with the winning tally. It’s awful nice of you fellows to appreciate talent!”
The boy called Buster made a mock bow as well as he was able. He was fat and chunky, so that his baseball suit seemed moulded to his figure. While his name was understood to be Nick Longfellow, he seldom heard it save at home or in school. To his fellows he was known by such significant names as “Buster,” “Pudding,” and “Hippopotamus.”
There were just five in the bunch, dusty, tired fellows, all on the way home from a most exciting game with a rival team, and the most bitter rivals for supremacy in the little river town along the upper Mississippi.
Besides Buster and Jack, there were the Irish lad, Jimmie Brannagan, who lived with the Stormways, being something of a ward of Jack’s father; Herb Dickson, and George Rollins, all of them members of the high school team.
These five boys, with the addition of another who was not present just then, composed the membership of a motor boat club, and between them owned three very clever craft. George’s was a narrow speedboat, called the Wireless, the powerful engine of which had a faculty for getting out of order just when most wanted. The one of which Jack was skipper was named the Tramp, and while not so fast as its dangerous competitor, could still make great time. Herb possessed a commodious launch, which he had very wisely christened the Comfort, for she was as staunch and reliable as a houseboat.
During the preceding autumn, taking advantage of the school being closed until New Year’s because of an epidemic in the town, these boys had made a long trip down the Mississippi river to New Orleans, being given permission by their parents or guardians.
To make the run more interesting Jack’s father had contributed a silver cup as a trophy; and the annals of that adventurous race have already been given in the first volume of this series. The boys for some time had been laying their heads together and planning another outing for the coming vacation; but for various good and sufficient reasons they were keeping their intended cruising ground a dead secret from everybody.
“Where’s Josh Purdue?” asked Herb, as the party swung into the main street of the town. “We want him along when we talk over that letter Jack had from Clayton, where our boats are going. What did you do about hiding their destination, Jack?”
“Yes,” said George, quickly. “You know we agreed that those chaps were nosing all about, trying to get a clew. Clarence has ordered a rattling motor boat from some eastern maker, and if he could only learn where we’re going to hang out this summer, wouldn’t he just try to make it warm for us, though? Ten to one you hadn’t left the station five minutes after fastening on the tags before he was reading the same.”
“I expected that, fellows,” laughed Jack, “and did the best I could to fool him. The boats are only sent to the address in Milwaukee. From there they will be rebilled to Clayton and shipped on a steamer through the lakes.”
“But he might even have the nerve to write to that agent and make some excuse for asking where they were sent. How about that, Jack?” asked Herb.
“I even thought of that,” replied the other. “You see, when you’re dealing with wide-awake, unscrupulous fellows like Clarence Macklin, and his toady, Joe Brinker, it pays to insure against trouble. And I’ve done it as well as I knew how.”
“Tell us about it, please,” asked Buster, anxiously.
“Well,” replied the one addressed, “I wrote the agent in Milwaukee, stating the circumstances. He turned out to be a jolly good chap; for he answered me and promised that if Clarence or Joe make inquiries he’ll put them on the wrong track.”
“Bully for him!” ejaculated Nick. “We’ll vote him thanks at our next meeting, fellows, that’s what, and call on him in a body as we go through to the steamer when on our way.”
