“My, oh my, but don’t I feel sorry for you, Brownie!” he gasped, between another succession of outbursts. “Broke? Gee! I’ll bet you are just shaking in your shoes.”
Dave smiled calmly.
“Maybe so, Vic,” he returned, good-naturedly. “Perhaps our stay in Kenosha may add more pages to my history than I anticipated.”
To Victor’s mind there was something extremely comical in Dave Brandon’s unexpected situation. His face now actually beamed. Things were at last breaking in a way to suit him. Without a move on his part, events had so shaped themselves that at least one member of the Rambler Club was likely to come tumbling down several pegs in a hurry.
Victor wasn’t really such a bad chap. He simply possessed an over-supply of the weaknesses of human nature, which had been fostered—unintentionally, of course—by a too-indulgent parent.
“I’ll lend the big Indian just as much of the cash as he wants,” reflected the boy, “but he’ll have to get off his high perch and ask me for it. Gee, won’t I laugh when the great depending-upon-himself fellow hollers for help!”
In a moment, slapping Dave on the shoulder, he said:
“What are you going to do?”
“Go back to the hotel. Perhaps Tom may have left some message for us.”
“Well, I don’t believe it.”