There was no answer, because at the same instant three other boys, with much noise and laughter, began climbing out.
The youngest was very tall and thin, and this was accentuated by the stoutness of a broadly smiling lad who stood close beside him. The fourth member of the group, a slender, sandy-haired boy, appeared to be about sixteen. His broad forehead and delicately chiseled features suggested fine intellect.
The first three, Bob Somers, Tom Clifton and Dave Brandon, were members of the Rambler Club, who, having made a house-boat trip up the Hudson, had reached Chicago en route to Wisconsin. Charlie Blake, their companion, a classmate, often referred to as the “grind,” on account of his studious habits, was on a visit to his friend, Victor Collins.
It naturally followed that the Ramblers, happening to be in Chicago at the same time, received an invitation to visit the Collins mansion. And it also followed that, as the Ramblers were going to have the use of a seven passenger touring car, Victor Collins was more than pleased to meet them.
Mr. Somers, Bob’s father, having motored to Chicago on business, returned by train, leaving the car at a garage, so that the boys might use it for the remainder of the journey to Kingswood, Wisconsin, their home.
When Victor Collins learned of this intention he instantly announced a determination to go with the crowd as far as Kenosha.
“You see,” he explained to Bob Somers, “my Uncle Ralph lives there; and he owns the dandiest motor yacht your eyes ever looked upon. He’s invited me to take a trip to Milwaukee. Talk about sport!”
So the morning had come when Victor’s anticipations were about to be realized.
“You’re all as brown as a bunch of street cleaners,” he remarked, after salutations had been exchanged. “I don’t believe that sun-tinting will ever wear off, either. Hello, Hannibal, hello!”
He turned and faced the house.