“Not your fault?”
“No, sir. But for your running off with Bob and Charlie it never would have happened.”
Tom came perilously near wilting under the captain’s stern gaze; only by a desperate effort could he control his shaky nerves.
The lines on the skipper’s face softened; the harsh look faded from his eyes.
“That’s true, my boy,” he said, reflectively; “quite true! Shake hands and forget what I said. But the mischief must be undone at once. Bob, I’m going to call up the hotel at Kenosha by long distance ’phone. My sister, if she knew the situation, I am sure would be intensely worried about the boy.”
The three followed the captain’s burly form into the office.
Tom’s expression had undergone a most remarkable change; his face now wore a look of conscious triumph.
“I squelched him some—eh, Bob?” he whispered in scarcely audible tones. “He couldn’t make me the goat, oh, no!”
“Be with you in a moment,” bawled out the captain, entering a telephone booth.
Little things like a closed door and a pile of boards couldn’t keep Uncle Ralph’s voice within bounds. Presently they heard him say: “What! Couldn’t give ’em the telegram because they’ve gone? How’s that?—When? ’Pon my word! And left no message, either? Don’t expect ’em back? Why not?”