“Say!” burst out the third new arrival, as he too came forward. “Calling a little, dinky station like this a city puts me in mind of a story. Once some travelers journeyed to the interior of Africa, and——”
“Hello! What do you know about that?” sang out Dave gayly. “Shadow has started to tell a story before he even says ‘how-do-you-do’!”
“Why, Shadow!” remonstrated Roger in an apparently injured tone of voice. “We heard that you had given up telling stories entirely.”
“Smoked herring! Who told you such a yarn as that?” burst out Phil.
“I don’t intend to give up telling stories,” announced Shadow Hamilton calmly. “I’ve got a brand new lot; haven’t I, fellows? I bet Dave and Roger never heard that one about the coal.”
“What about the coal, Shadow?” demanded Roger, shaking hands.
“Don’t ask him,” groaned Ben. “He’s told that story twenty-six times since we left home.”
“You’re a base prevaricator, Ben Basswood!” roared the former story-teller of Oak Hall. “I told that story just twice—once to you and once to that drummer from Chicago. And he said he had never heard it before, and that proves it’s a new story, because drummers hear everything.”
“Well, that story has one advantage,” was Phil’s comment. “It’s short.”
“All right then, Shadow; let’s hear it. And then tell us all about yourself,” said Dave quickly.