Randy and Pep took the young fellow in charge, and at the end of an hour they reappeared before Mr. Strapp. The latter stared hard, for a transformation had indeed taken place. Attired in a neat suit, brushed up and cleaned up, Vic Belton appeared like quite another person. The expression of Mr. Strapp’s face showed how greatly he was pleased.
“After supper you’ll tell us something; eh, Vic Belton?” he remarked, and he linked the arm of their young guest into his own as they proceeded to the dining room of the hotel.
Vic was a puzzle to Pep. The boy simply followed where he was led, seeming to have sublime confidence in his new friends. He made no demur nor resistance to their guidance. In a pleased way he put himself completely in their hands. It was after he had dispatched what was probably the first hotel meal he had ever sat down to, that he made the observation:
“I don’t know what I’ve fallen into; but you’re treating me fine.”
“There was no insurance on the Standard,” remarked Mr. Strapp, pointedly. “I reckon we’re going to adopt you, son.”
“Well, I need it,” remarked Vic, so artlessly that Pep had to laugh. “No folks, no home—I’d be glad.”
They all had to smile. It was plain to be seen that the boy was without guile.
“You see,” he continued, “when Frank Durham saw me down at the farm I told him how I was sort of born to the show business and wanted to break into it. He gave me his New York address; but advised me to stick to the farm.”
“Which in a general way is good advice; don’t you think, Vic?” asked Mr. Strapp.
“Not when a fellow hates farming and hears the call of the show business,” dissented Vic, in his plain, matter-of-fact way. “These two best fellows in the world and Durham himself branched out; didn’t they? Then why not me?”