THE "FEARLESS" ARRIVES
"Well I declare! What in thunder are you doing here, Benny Wilkins?" cried Bob Somers, somewhat startled, and not altogether pleased at his unexpected appearance.
"Spying," answered Benny, candidly.
"There's a rugged honesty about that answer that I like," laughed Steele. "Still, you ought to be at home studying, instead of cavorting around the street at this hour."
"Never cavorted in my life," grinned Benny.
"What were you doing here?" asked Bob.
"Until about sixty seconds ago, hiding behind that tree-box."
"Oh, come now, Benny!"
"Sure! Which way?" Then Wilkins' manner abruptly changed; a serious expression flitted into his brown eyes. "Say, Bob, what was it all about? Why'd you go to Mr. Barry's?" His hand fell on the captain's wrist. "Tell me. I can hardly wait. Did he sit on you hard?"
"Not so hard as to make us feel soft," grinned Bob. "Now, Benny, before I say another word——"
"All right! I know what you mean. This is the way it happened. I live close by here, you know, and I was standing at the front gate, chinning to a couple of fellows, when I saw you and Roger walk by on the opposite side of the street. When they left, a few moments later, I chased after you, and was just about catching up, when—Gee Whitaker! Astonishment still fills me—you turned into Mr. Rupert Barry's. 'Something's in the wind to make those chaps climb such a flight of steps,' I said to myself. So it was me for the lying-in-wait act until you trotted out, ready to give explanations. Ha, ha! Say—you fellows looked awful glad to see me. Now fire away, Bob."
"I must refer you to Mr. Rupert Barry," returned Bob, smilingly.
"Oh, come, that's mean. What! Aeroplane up those steps to have an interview with a big yellow dog at the top? Well, I should rather say nix! Go on—tell me about it."
"Nothing doing," said Bob.
"Not a word for the note-book," chuckled Steele.
"Well, I'll make an entry, just the same," snapped Benny, highly aggrieved. "It'll read like this: 'Mysterious visit of Coach Steele and Bob Somers to Mr. Rupert Barry's. Principals refuse to be interviewed. Were they called down for the punk showing of the team?'"
With a loud, "Good-night!" the tone of which indicated a decidedly ruffled state of feeling, Benny was off.
"A sarcastic little chap," declared Roger Steele. "I'm rather sorry this happened. He's a regular chatterbox, you know."
"Benny is good hearted enough, but thoughtless," mused Bob. "If the fellows hear about our calling upon Mr. Barry they may put too serious a construction on it."
"And 'Crackers' Brown and his crowd haven't been silenced by any means."
"They can't knock my confidence in the team. What kind of stuff would a captain be made of to become discouraged at the very outset?"
"That's the talk," said Steele, approvingly. "Let the croakers croak. Perhaps we know our own business best."
As Steele had feared, the news leaked out. Benny Wilkins told a friend, in confidence; this friend unbosomed himself to a chum, in confidence, and so on, until the "leak" could only be compared to the bursting of a great water main that sends up streams far above the housetops.
Naturally enough, it created a mild sensation. Boys discussed it animatedly on the campus, as they walked home, and at Terry Guffin's. In some remarkable manner vague suggestions of what Mr. Barry may have said became changed, by a steady process of evolution, into definite phrases.
Bob expressed the situation correctly when he said:
"Those 'They say' chaps have the floor."
But the Somers party treated all insinuations and rumors with a hot breath of scorn that almost, but not quite, extinguished the tiny fire which was kindled.
A few days later three lads strolling along the bank of Wolf River were considerably surprised and interested to discover a large motor yacht approaching.
Some of the richer residents of Kingswood owned gasoline launches or yachts; but none could be compared to the magnificent boat which now cut swiftly through the placid water of the river.
"Well, that's certainly a corker," remarked Luke Phelps, who had been busily engaged in throwing stones at a half-submerged barrel.
"Never saw a finer," said Jim Wilton, a junior at the High. "Wonder what she's doing here? Slowing up, by Jingo!"
"All boats slow up before they stop," grinned Phelps. "Say, fellows, it's got a real saucy name, hasn't it?"
"The 'Fearless,'" read Jim. "Makes me think of the high school ball nine. They're fearless before defeat."
"Or fearless afterward—in this case, the same thing," came from Aleck Parks.
"If Roycroft had any sand he'd be on the team. He seems to be as soft as his muscles are hard. Well, I declare, that yacht is coming inshore. Wonder who the lucky owner can be?"
"They must have spilled a few barrelsful of white paint on it. Hello! There's somebody getting ready to heave the anchor. Let's loaf around here, fellows, and see what happens."
The strange yacht was moored a bit further up-stream; and a few moments afterward the trio saw a small boat being lowered and three people take their places in it.
Luke Phelps' curiosity was stirred. He began scrambling down the steep bank to a stretch of flat shore which bordered the stream.
The yacht's dory had already pushed off, and, under the strokes of a muscular oarsman, was making steady progress toward a rude wharf. Long rippling lines spreading out from its bow caught brilliant gleams from golden and purplish clouds floating lazily above.
The boys walked fast, reaching the rickety pile of boards just as two occupants of the boat clambered upon them.
Phelps was immediately impressed with a strange dissimilarity in their appearance. One was a big burly man with a brown beard dressed in a yachting suit of blue; the other a slight lad attired in clothes of the finest texture, wearing a large checkered cap and a decidedly saucy grin.
"Looks as if he'd melt away in a rain storm," remarked Phelps, confidentially, to Aleck. "Got a peach of a complexion, hasn't he? Just the kind of a chap you have to talk gently to for fear o' hurting his feelings."
"Soak him a good one on the ribs and he'd most likely blubber," whispered Aleck. "Speak to me, sir?"
"I did," answered the man in the yachting costume. The strength of his voice was in full accord with the size of his frame. "Do any of you boys know Bob Somers?"
"Bob Somers!" cried Phelps, arching his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, ra-ther!"
"And a tall, gawky chap named Tom Clifton?" came from the boy in the checkered cap.
"I should say so."
"And Joe Rodgers?" asked the big man.
"Yes, sir!"
"Then I suppose you know Dave Brandon and Charlie Blake?"
"No mistake about that, cap'n," answered Phelps, whose curiosity was receiving additional impetus from the visitors' questions.
"Will you kindly direct me how to reach Bob Somers' residence?"
"I'll do more'n that; I'll lead you right to it," responded Luke Phelps, eagerly.
He reflected that this would be the best way to find out all about the strangers in the shortest possible time.
It was this same sort of feeling, no doubt, which prompted the others to second his proposition.
"It's mighty easy to get all twisted up in the woods around here," explained Jim. "Oh, no; you won't be putting us to any trouble. We've attended to our most pressing business engagements for the day."
"You are a very accommodating lot," laughed the big man. "Lead on."
In his new capacity as guide Luke Phelps made the best use of the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. This, he found, did not require a great deal of diplomacy. The boys soon learned that they were talking to Captain Ralph Bunderley, of Kenosha, and Victor Collins, his nephew, son of a widely-known Chicago lawyer.
They also became aware of the fact that the captain, who owned the motor yacht "Fearless," and his young relative had met several of the Ramblers, Charlie Blake and Joe Rodgers, during the preceding fall, when the boys were making a motor car trip from Chicago to Kingswood.
"As fine a crowd of youngsters as I ever met, too," declared Captain Bunderley. "They said something about getting up a ball nine, and wanted us to run over and see 'em. So here we are!"
"Say, how is Tom Clifton getting on?" asked Victor Collins, abruptly. "Has he pulled off any mighty stunts on the diamond yet?"
Phelps exchanged significant glances with his companions.
"Don't mention it. We're trying to forget baseball," he answered, wearily.
"What's the matter? Wouldn't Bob Somers take you on his team?"
Victor Collins' voice was delicate and refined; but there was something in his manner which impressed the boys with the idea that perhaps he wasn't quite so easy as they had supposed.
"I never tried to get on," grumbled Phelps. "I had better sense."
"I thought those chaps were all corking good players," said Victor. "From the way Clifton talked last fall you might have expected by this time to see accounts of Bob Somers' ball nine in the Chicago papers."
"Is that what he called it?" asked Jim.
"Sure! Why?"
"You mustn't even whisper such a thing before 'em now," snapped Aleck Parks. "It's the Kingswood High baseball team. But the club is run by the Ramblers, just the same."
"I fear there are mutterings of discontent here," said Captain Bunderley. He looked sharply at the trio. "I thought I'd find all the boys red-hot for Bob Somers and his friends. I won't hear a word against them from anybody—understand that. They're all good square fellows with level heads."
Captain Bunderley's bluff style of talking effectually squelched Aleck Parks; and, having learned all he cared to know, the latter soon found a convenient excuse for leaving the party.
Luke Phelps, though not so easily affected, was wise enough to take a hint.
"Going to stay long in Kingswood, cap'n?" he inquired, at length.
"That depends." The skipper shrugged his broad shoulders. "My time is my own. At any rate I'd like to stay until the Rambler Club's ball nine is carrying everything before it."
"In that case I'm afraid you'll never get away," murmured Luke, softly.
After passing through several patches of woods, then across broad undulating fields, the four came to a wide highway. Captain Bunderley's swinging gait before long carried them to the outskirts of Kingswood. Finally the high school was passed, and a short time later Pembroke Hall, the home of Bob Somers' father, loomed into view.
"Boys, I thank you sincerely," said the burly skipper, as he at length placed his hand on the iron gate at the entrance to the grounds. "I hope we shall become better acquainted."