“We have seen your car before,” she remarked, glancing over at the red racer beside them. “It is such a brilliant color—and—well—you have passed us several times!”
Both young men smiled in amusement.
“It did look rather strange, I guess,” admitted the taller, better looking man; “if you didn’t know our reason. We really aren’t following you, though it might seem so. We’re travelling across the continent too—and stopping in the principal towns to look up fraternity brothers. In fact,” the young man concluded, “we are rounding up as many as we can for a convention in September.”
“Oh, I see,” said Florence, turning again to the wheel, and this time, to her extreme delight, succeeding in unloosening a nut. “Then perhaps we shall meet you again!”
“That would be delightful,” he murmured courteously; then, leaning down, he almost took the wrench from Florence’s hand.
“Just let me do this one—it’s a tough one, I see!” he pleaded. “Nobody will see, and we’ll never tell.”
“No, no!” cried Florence, impetuously. “No, Mr.—?” She stopped, questioningly.
“McDaniel,” supplied the young man, straightening up again and searching in his pocket for his card. His companion followed his example and a moment later each girl had in her possession the means of identifying both men. The names which they read were:
“Clyde Rutgers McDaniel”
and