The cool gusts of wind which continually swept against the lad, together with the busy scenes along the wharves, finally began to calm his belligerent spirit. The first effect of the unpleasant situation wearing off left him with a dogged feeling of determination to show his mettle.
Presently Tom sat down on an old box, from which position he had a good view of the river. But another period of waiting brought no result, and he rose to his feet more disgusted than ever.
His mind had been busily engaged. He did not intend to let any one, even his best friends, play jokes on him.
“If the bunch doesn’t turn up mighty fast,” he reflected, “I’ll have a little fun in that car all by my lonesome. No doubt now—it’s Milwaukee for mine.”
The boys didn’t turn up. Whereupon Tom, deciding that he had, with Sherlock Holmes intelligence, made the proper deductions, went back to the hotel. There he gathered together the few articles of luggage which the crowd carried with them and paid their bill.
“I’ll be back soon with the car,” he explained, briefly, to the clerk.
At the garage the proprietor was mildly surprised to see only the very tall lad returning to take charge of the motor car, but, concluding that it was none of his affair, he made no comments.
The machine seemed to have increased marvelously in size since Tom had last seen it. In the midst of other vehicles it loomed up in a positively gigantic fashion. How easily he could picture in his mind Dave Brandon lolling in comfort on the rear seat. What a strange, dismal silence hovered over the big car now! A peculiar sense of loneliness stole over him. He stood, irresolute. Then, in an instant, and with a shrug of his shoulders, he climbed up to the chauffeur’s seat.
“Yes, suh, I done filled the tank with gasoline,” explained a smiling colored lad, in answer to his query. “Dar ain’t nuthin’ to be did. Whar’s ye goin’, suh, if I might ask?”
“To Milwaukee,” answered Tom.