Poppy Ott and the galloping snail

All fagged out, I dragged myself wearily from the sun-baked concrete highway to the skinny shade of a thin-limbed, thirsty-looking bush.

“Under the spreading blacksmith tree the village chestnut sits,” I crazily recited, kicking off my shoes to cool my blistered feet. Then I looked at my chum with begging eyes. “Get me some ice cream, Poppy. Quick, before I faint.”

Boy, was I ever hot! I felt like a fried egg. But scorched as I was, inside and out, I could still sing a song.

To better introduce myself, I’ll explain that my name is Jerry Todd. I live in Tutter, Illinois, which is the peachiest small town in the state. And the kids I run around with are the peachiest boy pals in the state, too, particularly Poppy Ott, the hero of this crazy story.

Poppy is a real guy, let me whisper to you. I never expect to have a chum whom I like any better than I like him. He’s full of fun, just like his funny name, which he got from peddling pop corn. And brains? Say, when they were dishing out gray matter old Poppy got served at both ends of the line. I’ll tell the world. If you want to know how smart he is, just read POPPY OTT’S SEVEN-LEAGUE STILTS. Starting with nothing except an idea, we ended up, under his clever leadership, with a factory full of stilt-manufacturing machinery and money in the bank. That’s Poppy for you. Every time. A lot of his ideas are pretty big for a boy, but he makes them work. Of course, as he warmly admits, I was a big help to him in putting the new stilt business on its feet and teaching it to stand alone. But his loyal praise doesn’t puff me up. For I know who did the most of the headwork.

With Poppy’s pa doing the general-manager stuff in the new factory, my chum and I had merrily set forth on a hitch-hike as a sort of vacation. This, too, was Poppy’s idea. A hitch-hike, as every kid knows, is a sort of free automobile tour. You start walking down the concrete in the direction you want to go, and when a motor car to your liking comes alone you wigwag the driver to stop and give you a lift. Sometimes you get it and sometimes you don’t. But if you limp a little bit, and act tired, that helps.

Poppy, of course, was all hip-hip-hurray over his hitch-hike idea. That’s his way. Our most violent exercise, he spread around, seeing nothing but joy and sugar buns ahead, would be lifting our travel-weary frames into soft-cushioned Cadillacs and Packards. Once comfortably seated, we would glide along swiftly and inexpensively. No gasoline bills to pay. No new tires to buy. Everything free, including the scenery. Some automobiles would carry us ten miles, others would carry us a hundred miles. “We might even average around three hundred miles a day,” was some more of his line, “and still have time each night to stop at a farmhouse and do chores for our supper and breakfast.” If we slept in the farmer’s barn, that would be free, too. Our trip would cost us scarcely anything, though it would be wise, the leader tacked on at the tail end, to carry twenty dollars in small bills for emergencies.

I fell for the scheme, of course. For Poppy never has any trouble getting me to do what he wants me to do. Not that I haven’t a mind of my own. But I’ve found out that in going along with him I usually learn something worth while, and have a whale of a lot of fun doing it, too.

Having won our parents’ consent to the trip, we had set forth that morning in high feather. But in poor luck we now were held up on a closed road, though why the road had been suddenly shut off was a mystery to us.

With a final look up and down the long stretch of concrete, Poppy came over to where I was and dropped down beside me in the hot sand.

“Still not a sign of a car,” says he.

“Not even a flivver, huh?” I suffered with him.

“I can’t understand it,” says he, puzzled. “We saw a few cars after we left Pardyville. But the road’s completely empty now, and has been for hours.”

I saw a chance to have some fun with him.

“‘And our most violent exercise,’” I quoted glibly, “‘will be lifting our travel-weary frames into soft-cushioned cattle racks and pant hards.’ Say, Poppy,” I grinned, “was that last cattle rack we rode in a four-legged wheelbarrow or another gnash?”

“You won’t feel so funny,” came the laugh, “if you have to go to bed to-night without your supper.”

“Bed?” says I, looking around at the sun-baked scenery. It was a beautiful country, all right--for sand burs and grasshoppers! “Where’s the bed?” I yawned. “Lead me to it.”

“This sand knoll may be the only bed you’ll get. For there isn’t a farmhouse in sight.”

I got my eyes on something.

“The Hotel Emporia for me, kid,” I laughed, pointing to a billboard beside the highway. “‘One hundred comfortable rooms,’” I read, “‘each with bath and running ice water. Delectable chicken dinners. Sun-room cafeteria. Inexpensive garage in connection.’ Who could ask for more?” I wound up.

“Jerry, don’t you ever run down?”

“Hey!” I yipped, straightening. “What do you think I am?--a clock?”

“Yah,” came the quick grin, “a cuckoo clock.”

“It took real brains to think up that one, kid. You win.”

“It’s a cinch,” the leader then went on, “that they aren’t letting any cars into this road. For we haven’t seen an automobile since three o’clock. And it’s after six now.”

“Supper time, huh?”

“Yes, supper time, but no supper. Shall we walk back to Pardyville, Jerry?”

“How would that help us?”

“The automobiles must detour from there.”

“First let us sleuth the road map,” I suggested, “and find out where we are.”

“Here’s Pardyville,” Poppy presently pointed out.

“We must be near New Zion,” says I, squinting at the map. “See? Here’s a river running east and west, with a concrete road on each side--C. H. O. and C. H. P.”

“County Highway ‘O’ and County Highway ‘P,’” Poppy explained.

“We must be on C. H. O.”

“That’s what the map says.”

“Come Here Often,” I made up of the three capital letters, looking around at the Sahara sandscape. “Yes, I will--not!”

“I should imagine,” came thoughtfully, as the leader studied the map, “that a better scheme than going back will be to cross the river at New Zion and pick up the other road. For both roads lead into Sandy Ridge. And that’s our next regular town.”

“How far have we come?” I inquired.

The leader got out his “log” book.

“About sixty-two miles.”