CHAPTER VII.
IN THE RED STAR GARAGE.
As soon as Rockwell and Hibbard had disappeared, Jimmie Fortune took rather an abrupt leave of Owen. He walked rapidly in the direction taken by the garage man and the chauffeur, jingling his silver dollars as he went.
“I’ll bet something handsome he’s going to keep an eye on Rockwell and Hibbard,” muttered Clancy. “Those two fellows trouble him a lot more than they do me. Jimmie’s a pretty good sort of a chap, though, if I’m any hand at reading character.”
Truth to tell, Owen had taken a great liking to the irresponsible, happy-go-lucky Jimmie. The wanderer had shown no great capacity for anything but celerity in losing the various jobs which he managed to secure, and yet his oddness and good nature made him likable and a good companion.
Clancy went into the garage and looked around with considerable interest. One corner of the huge room was partitioned off for an office. A couple of young fellows, who looked as though they might be chauffeurs, sat at a table in the office, smoking cigarettes and playing cards.
The interior walls of the garage were painted white, and marked off with perpendicular black lines, six or seven feet apart. Cars of many different makes were berthed between these lines. Other cars were drawn out toward the middle of the floor and workmen were tinkering with them.
In an “L” opening off the rear end of the big room machines were being washed. In another L on the opposite side a sandy-whiskered man was vulcanizing a tire. His face was smudged with oil and grease, but the flame, striking his features sharply, revealed eyes that captured Owen’s confidence.
“You’re the mechanic here?” the new employee asked, approaching the bench where the man was at work.
“You’ve hit it, son,” was the reply.