“That’s so,” agreed Pep. “There’s an argument for you, Mr. Strapp.”
“Well, something came up and I wrote to the Empire in New York City,” went on Vic, “and whoever got the letter wrote back that Mr. Durham was in Boston, at the Parker House. Then I came here, day before yesterday. They told me at the hotel that he had moved here. The clerk here said he was in New York. I found out he was going to run the Standard, so I hung around there a bit. Then the man running the garage gave me a job. I took it until Mr. Durham got back, to take me into his show.”
“Oh, you think he will do that; do you?” grinned Pep, carried off his feet by the amazing confidence this odd boy had in his friends and prospects.
“Yes, I know he will,” declared Vic, with assurance. “You see, when he talked to me I was only a poor farm boy, anxious to get away from haymows and turnips. Then something came along—something amazing.”
“Is that so?” inquired Pep, his curiosity aroused.
“Oh, yes. You see, when I talked to Mr. Durham I had nothing—no money, no property, no prospects.”
“And it’s different now; is it?” questioned Pep, wondering what was coming next.
“I should say so!” exclaimed Vic. “I don’t come to Mr. Durham now, though, asking him to pull me along like a helpless raw recruit. No, sir. I can help him, I can.”
“Well, well, here’s an original one,” murmured the amused Westerner.
Randy puckered his lips. Pep grew big-eyed at viewing the boy who slept in a shed yet talked with the confidence of a millionaire.