"Missed the three-fifty car, just as I told Clint we would if he didn't hustle——"
"I had to find a cap to wear, didn't I?" interpolated Clint.
"Well, we found the place all right, fellows, and, say, it's some poultry farm, believe me, dearies! Isn't it corking, Clint?"
Clint grunted assent, stretching tired legs across the floor.
"There's about a thousand acres of it, I guess, and a mile of red chicken houses and runs, or whatever you call 'em. How many hens and things did he tell us he had, Clint?"
"Eighteen hundred, I think. Maybe it was eighteen thousand. I don't remember. All I know is there were chickens as far as you could see, and then some."
"Never mind the descriptive matter," urged Tom. "What did he say? Had Josh been at him? Did he promise——"
"I'm coming to that, dearie. When we found him he was doing something to that car of his in a cute little garage. And, say, it's an eight-cylinder Lothrop, and a regular jim-dandy! Well, he took us into his house first——"
Tom groaned in despair.
"——And fed us on crackers and cake and ginger ale. Say, he's got a peach of a bungalow there; small but entire; and a cute little Jap who cooks and looks after things for him. Well, then he took us out and showed us around the place. Chickens! Gee, I didn't know there were so many in the world! And we saw the incubators and the—what you call them—brooders, and——"