“Well, I got to Wardham and found the farm where Bill’s relatives live.”
“Was he there?” inquired Pep.
“Yes,” responded Vic, “he’d been there for three days, in bed, his leg broken and out of his head.”
“The camels—” began Pep.
“No, they would never hurt Bill,” protested Vic. “Bill had turned up one night at his relatives’ house dragging his leg behind him, smelling of liquor and acting strange. The first sensible spell he had was just after I got to Wardham.
“Bill was all broken up, crying and ashamed. He told a queer, rambling story of leaving the freight train thirty miles across country from Wardham. I’ve got to tell you that Bill’s failing has always been strong drink.”
“Too bad, that generally complicates things,” commented Pep, philosophically.
“He’d kept straight clear along the route. It was night time when he got the camels off the car and started for Wardham. They were glad to get on solid ground again, and so was Bill. He says he came to a crossroads settlement where he got the camels a good feed.
“He himself was foolish enough to drink some liquor. He says it went to his head. Then he dimly remembers going to another town, and then another. By that time he wasn’t able to take care of the camels. He recalls traveling along a lonely country road, following directions as to Wardham. Then it’s all a sort of mist to him. When he came to his senses, he was lying in an old stone quarry with his leg broken. How he got to the Wright farm he doesn’t know.”
“Why,” suggested Pep, “the camels must have wandered away from him, and must be roving around somewhere. Didn’t you try to find out?”