"Said nothin' of the kind," growled the sharp-eyed one. "I said I'd meet you right here on Green Avenue. Been looking for you till—"
"You did not!" spoke the other of the two in the car. "I know what you said!"
But by that time the lad called "Pick" had seated himself in the double rumble, and as the automobile moved forward—"Oh shut up!" he answered moodily. "I'm sore! Still nothing to it but talk of the three stones. Anyhow, though, I've got the exact words about them," and with this he repeated the description of three stones, piled one on top of another, substantially as he had overheard the same.
"Well, they're going somewhere and they're going to start soon. I've found out that much, for sure," spoke the chap who drove. He was a really likable looking fellow, named Perth—Fred, or more often Freddy, when addressed by his first name.
The lad beside him was "Soapy"—otherwise Harry—Gaines, the somewhat spoiled son of one of the very few rich men in Lannington. He was of such uncertain temper, slipping so far beyond the reach of ordinary mortals and putting on ever and again so vast an air of superiority, possibly because of the paternal wealth, but with or without cause or reason, that his nickname seemed well applied. He it was who claimed ownership of the Roadster.
"Course they're going somewhere! Haven't we known it all along? Didn't they say themselves they were going, and just as good as tell us we wasn't wanted, when we told 'em we'd go with 'em? Humph! They've had a plan rigged up this long while and making such a mystery of it that half the town wonders what they're up to."
He of the hawk eyes—otherwise "Pick," otherwise Tom Pickton—was the speaker. The coarse, rasping quality of his voice was the more pronounced as he put more contempt in it. "Just the same, I'm thinking they can't go where we can't follow—if we like; eh, Gaines?" It was in quite a different key, though the voice was still harsh as a file, that Pickton addressed the owner of the machine.
The latter young gentleman said that with his car he could run circles around the persons to whom the other made reference. He was of the opinion that nothing more interesting could be desired, however, than merely to trail along behind the Auto Boys, (for it was to them that the conversation referred) and by thus being constantly present, annoy and harass them in a way that would be a "deuced lot o' fun."
Then, too, if the four chums who had declined the self-extended invitation that Soapy and his friends accompany them, had in mind the secret exploring of a mystery, a search for a robbers' cave or some such thing, which was considered to be their real purpose, they would be enabled to carry out their plan, at last, only by making terms with the Chosen Trio.
The Chosen Trio, it will be understood, was the name by which Messrs. Pickton, Gaines and Perth had elected to style themselves. "Chosen to be hanged, if anything!" Paul Jones had ungraciously said; but that is neither here nor there. The three were in no immediate danger of meeting such a fate, and they were capable of making themselves most extremely disagreeable, without appearing to trespass beyond their lawful rights. Where one automobile was allowed, for instance, another might follow; and the public roads everywhere were built no more for one individual than for another.