“Oh, don’t ‘why Vic’ me!” snapped Victor. “I tell you, Uncle Ralph Bunderley probably sat down and roared.”
“You won’t think so when you feel in a better humor,” laughed Dave.
“I don’t care what you say, Brandon; that’s the way I figure it out. Anyway, if that long-legged Indian did engineer it”—he flourished his fists savagely—“he’ll stop a few of these!”
“Let’s try and reason——”
“There isn’t any reason to it. That Clifton fellow has just turned the trick; he’s getting square for some of the true things I said about him.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Dave.
“Oh, I reckon you’ll stand up for that grand and perfect Clifton. Honest, though, I didn’t think the sly, foxy Indian would do Brownie up brown like this.”
Dave, refusing to countenance such an idea, propounded theory after theory, each of which his companion promptly rejected.
“There’s no use talking, Brandon,” he exclaimed, at length. “I declare, I’m mad enough to punch his head off. The yacht’s gone; the gasoline tank’s gone; and we’re here in Kenosha.”
“And I’m likely to stay for some time to come, unless the fellows turn up.”