Dave, followed by Victor, loped across the wet, soggy lot, or, rather, tried to. But, although the journey was attended by much discomfort and some risk of taking a header, they finally arrived at the drug store in safety.
Dave promptly called up the hotel and was soon speaking to the night clerk. The latter declined to open the telegram, but gave the stout boy full information about the ’phone message which Captain Bunderley had sent from Milwaukee.
“Well?” queried Victor, eagerly, as the historian hung up the receiver.
Dave briefly explained.
“There, you big Indian, I knew it!” exclaimed the lawyer’s son, triumphantly. “A nice trick they played on us, eh? Well, I’m liable to handle that Tom Clifton with awful carelessness when we meet again. Now, Brownie”—his tone became imperious—“you just call up Uncle Ralph on the long distance and tell him what’s what.”
With a broad smile, the stout boy obeyed.
To his disappointment, however, he was told that Captain Bunderley had retired for the night.
“If it’s important we’ll get him right up for you,” came a faint voice over the wire.
Dave did some rapid thinking. “Poor Joe is most likely fretting and fuming about the delay,” he mused. “Besides, if I wait any longer there may be another mix-up.”
He spoke in the transmitter again: