“If Dave isn’t with you, he and Victor must be thirty-four miles from here,” said Bob, calmly.
“What?” piped the tall lad, a sinking feeling suddenly gripping his heart. Bob Somers’ expression was quite enough to convince him of his sincerity. “Dave and Victor in Kenosha!” he added, faintly.
His thoughts ran riot for a moment. Then, after all, Victor Collins wasn’t responsible. It really came as a stunning surprise to Tom.
“Well, Bob, the jinx has surely got us on this trip,” he exclaimed. “Say, fellows, that was a foul tip of mine.”
Highly disgusted, Tom Clifton told the whole story, not forgetting, even in his mental stress, to take credit for the fact that his calculations regarding the destination of the motor yacht had proven correct.
The “grind” was not demonstrative, as a rule, but on this occasion he fairly roared with mirth, slapped his knees and grew so red in the face that Tom became quite alarmed.
“Gee! Look out, Charlie,” he cautioned. “The system can stand only so much.”
“I know; and this was just a trifle over the limit,” gurgled Blake. “Ha, ha, Tom! You have Sherlock Holmes beaten a mile.”
Tom was highly aggrieved.
“I’ll leave it to Bob if anybody wouldn’t have been liable to think as I did,” he declared, stoutly. “Now tell me how it happened that you’re here.”