“The worst of traveling around like this,” said Tom, “is that you meet a lot of fellows, and just as soon as you get to like them to beat the band you have to say good-bye.”
“Yes, I noticed you liked Victor well enough at one time to want to hit him on the eye,” exclaimed Blake. And this remark Tom passed by with haughty silence.
Once more they were at the garage; and once more they jumped into the car. The blasts of the horn which had grown so familiar to their ears again warned the passers-by of their approach.
On the outskirts of the city, Tom, who was sitting behind Dave, touched the stout boy on the shoulder.
“Look at Blake,” he exclaimed, in a low tone. “Honest—being with this crowd has certainly done him a lot of good.”
The usually timid “grind” had exchanged places with Bob Somers and was actually driving the car at a good clip along a street which was by no means deserted. And, more than that, Blake looked as unconcerned as though handling a big touring car was the easiest thing in the world.
“A few more months,” went on Tom, loftily, “and that yellow streak some of the boys talked about couldn’t be found with a microscope.”
“That’s so,” admitted Dave. “All Charlie needs is a bit of encouragement, and he will be a mighty useful member of our ball team. What were you saying, Joe?”
“That I jist feel like yelling for all I’m worth.”
“Please don’t do it now,” laughed Dave. “I’m most uncommonly sleepy, and this delightful motion is calling me to the land of nod.”