Pep’s mind was in a turmoil over this repetition of the name of the young movies leader. The strange boy seemed to know no other. To him it appeared to be one to conjure by. Pep was devoured with curiosity as to how this poorly dressed refugee, working at odd jobs and sleeping in a garage, could know Frank.
Unceremoniously the chums ushered their companion into the presence of Mr. Strapp at the hotel. The Westerner stared hard at Pep, whose attire was disordered, and then at the strange lad, who resembled a half-drowned rat.
“Well, what’s all this?” he demanded, and Pep burst out in a breezy account of what had happened at the Standard. It was then that the impulsive ex-ranchman sprang to his feet, seized the hand of the visitor and gave it a grasp that made the latter wince, accompanying the welcome with the hearty words: “Shake—and shake again!”
“You sit down,” said Randy, urging their guest to the softest chair in the room. “Mr. Strapp, he’s dead beat after that bout, I guess, and he’s soaked through. Look at that hand—all blistered, too. If you’ll tell me where your baggage is, I’ll go and bring you a change.”
The stranger startled his auditors with a laugh that made the echoes ring.
“Baggage?” he repeated, and he chuckled. “Change? Why, I never had more than one suit of clothes in my life, and that a poor one. I only brought a couple of shirts and some handkerchiefs with me to Boston, and they’re burned up in the fire.”
“Here, Randy!” broke in Mr. Strapp—taking some money from his pocket. “You take this young friend of ours in hand. Mend him up, dress him up and bring him back here. I want to get better acquainted with you, young man. Let me see—what’s your name?”
“Vic Belton,” was the prompt reply. “I come from Home Farm. That was where I met Frank Durham. And Professor Barrington. It was when the train was wrecked——”
“Why, I know—I remember!” cried Pep. “Frank told us about that. You’re the boy who wanted to join the movies.”
“Yes,” nodded Vic gravely, “I’m here to break into the show business.”