“We’ll go in a drug store and consult a city directory,” answered Sam. “He may think he knows all the streets, but every city has a lot of places even the oldest inhabitant doesn’t know.”
They rode on a few blocks further and then, seeing a large drug store, alighted from the car and entered the place. A directory was handy, on a stand, and they asked for permission to consult it.
“Nothing like Carm here,” said Tom, after they had looked at the alphabetical list of streets. “We are stumped, sure enough.”
“Hello! I’ve got it—I think!” burst out Sam, so loudly that the attention of several persons in the store was attracted to him. “Here is a Varmolet street. Maybe Mrs. Stanhope only heard the name, and thought it was Carmolet. She wrote that down, and the end became rubbed off.”
“You may be right, Sam,” answered Dick. “Anyway, I guess your idea is worth looking into. I wonder where Varmolet street is?”
They made several inquiries, and at last learned that the street was a narrow and exceedingly crooked affair about half a mile away. They boarded another street car to visit the neighborhood.
“Look who is here!” ejaculated Tom, as he and his brothers sat down.
“Well, I never!” cried Sam.
“Jerry Koswell and Bart Larkspur!” murmured Dick.
It was indeed the two former students of Brill—the lads who had run away after causing the Rovers and some others so much trouble. Both were loudly dressed in summer outing flannels, and each carried an unlighted cigarette in his hand.