The boys brought their motorcycles to a stop beside pretty, brown-eyed Callie. Under one arm she was carrying a slightly battered package. She looked vexed.
“Hi, Callie! What’s the matter?” Frank asked. “You look as if your last friend had gone off in a moon rocket.”
Callie gave a mischievous smile. “How could I think that with you three friends showing up? Or are you about to take off?” Then her smile faded and she held out the damaged package. “Look at that!” she exclaimed. “It’s your fault, Chet Morton!”
The stout boy gulped. “M-my fault? How do you figure that?”
“Well, dear old Mrs. Wills down the road is ill, so I baked her a cake.”
“Lucky Mrs. Wills,” Joe broke in. “Callie, I’m feeling terribly ill.”
Callie ignored him. “That man in the car came along here so fast that I jumped to the side of the road and dropped my package. I’m afraid my cake is ruined!”
“What man?” Joe asked.
“The one Chet lent his car to.”
“Callie, that’s the man we’re looking for!” Frank exclaimed. “Chet didn’t lend him the car. He stole it!”