“Oh, sure I’ll go. You know that!” exclaimed Jerry, and with an effort he seemed to recall his thoughts from whatever distant realms they roamed. “Sure we’ll go for a spin. I guess I was thinking about the ball game.”
Ned and Bob each gave their chum a queer look, but they said nothing. Only Ned thought to himself:
“Thinking about the ball game; eh? That won’t go with me, when, a little while ago, he didn’t even know which side had won. There’s something wrong with Jerry. I wonder what it is?”
But, whatever it was, it did not seem to be anything very serious, for soon Jerry smiled at his chums, and clapping Bob on the shoulder with a force that made the stout youth grunt, exclaimed:
“Sure we’ll go for a spin! It will give us an appetite for supper, and I seem to need one. I’ve been a little off my feed the last few days.”
At this Bob looked worried. Eating was something in which he took a great deal of interest. Perhaps it was that which made him so stout, and had gained for him the nickname of “Chunky,” which his chums occasionally called him.
The three boys—the “motor boys” they were locally called—because they so often rode about in motor vehicles—automobiles, motor boats, or motor-driven airships—had come to the ball game in their auto which stood parked, with a number of others, back of the grandstand. Thither they now made their way.
The air was filled with the noisy chug-chug of scores of machines as they backed, turned and darted ahead to get from the ball field to the road. In and out of the receding throng the autoists guided their cars. On all sides were talk and laughter—talk of the game just finished, congratulatory calls to the winners, and expressions of regret for the losers.
“Yes, it sure was some nifty little game,” remarked Bob, as the chums reached their machine. “Are you going to drive, Jerry?” he asked.
“I will if you want me to—sure.”