The Rambler Club's motor car

On the steps of a house on Michigan Avenue, Chicago, not far from Thirtieth Street, Victor Collins stood gazing up and down the wide thoroughfare. There was an expression in his eyes which seemed to indicate an earnest and expectant state of mind.

The steps belonged to a fine mansion with handsome columns on either side of the entrance and an ornate balcony above. Everything suggested that the neighborhood was the home of wealth and aristocracy. Even the lad on the steps fitted perfectly into the picture. His rather small, slight figure was dressed in a natty brown suit, while a cap--a very large checkered cap--rested jauntily on his neatly brushed hair. Victor Collins’ features were well proportioned, although the curves were rather too dainty, perhaps, to suit the idea of some critical lads.

Victor was becoming impatient. Impatience was one of his principal characteristics. Waiting is tedious. So Victor tilted his cap far back, the process revealing two frowning lines on his forehead which, considering his age, should never have existed.

Fortunately for the lad’s peace of mind, however, the vigorous honk, honk of a motor car, rising above all other sounds in the street, suddenly caused his gaze to become centered upon the approaching machine.

“Well, thank goodness, here they are at last!” he exclaimed, joyfully.

Running down the steps he reached the curb just as a big touring car swung up alongside and came to a stop.

“All ready, Victor?” called the chauffeur, a broad-shouldered, healthy-looking lad, leaping to the ground.

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.

A very dignified colored man, wearing an immaculately clean apron, had opened the door and was standing with a large suit case in his hand.

“Bring it down and chuck it into the car,” commanded Victor.

“An awful lot of stuff for a short trip,” remarked Tom. “You ought to throw out half.”

“Fade away,” retorted Victor. “There’s another one coming.”

“Mercy!” snickered Tom. “Why don’t you bring a department store along?”

Hannibal made short work of depositing the heavy suit cases in the tonneau. Then, grinning broadly, he drew forth a letter and handed it to Charlie Blake.

“It am just come, suh,” he explained.

“The handwriting spells Kirk Talbot’s name as loud as those checks on Victor’s cap, fellows,” cried Blake.

“Kirk Talbot?” queried Tom, interestedly. “We met Kirk often on one of our trips. Remember, Bob?”

Bob did, and smiled.

“I’m sorry that he and Nat Wingate won’t be back in the school this term,” he remarked. “By the way, Dave, we’ll have to hustle to catch up with our studies.”

“Don’t mention it, Bob. Just think of how the doors of that school are yawning for us even now.”

“They’ll have to yawn a mighty big, wide yawn for you,” said Victor.

“Go ahead, Charlie, read that letter out loud,” cried Tom.

Blake was soon smiling broadly.

“Kirk has a few interesting knocks to hand out, Bob,” he chuckled. “Just listen:

“‘DEAR CHARLIE:--

“‘Your last effusion is lying on my desk. So you are actually going to meet Bob Somers and his chums! Say, don’t those chaps manage to have the finest time ever, with their aeroplanes, house-boats, automobiles and a dash of cowboy life in between!

“‘And you are going to motor back to Kingswood with them! That’s great.

“‘But I’ve got a bit of news which ought to make Bob Somers sit up and take notice. Nat Wingate and I have formed a football team. Yes, it’s true. There’s a lot of good material going to waste here in town. And the high school team has had its own way so long it’s time somebody took them down a peg. And though we really hate to do it those chaps are in for the worst drubbing of their career, and we’re even talking about a ball nine next spring.’”

“Are we going to stay here all day?” grumbled Victor.

“Just a few moments, Vic,” laughed Charlie, resuming:

“‘Now that Nat Wingate has gone those high school chaps are like an army without a general.’”