Tom and Sam were soon on the way. The main street of Fernwood contained less than four blocks of stores, and there was a cross street with half a dozen other establishments. But the place was a railroad center and, consequently, was of quite some importance.
Having walked up and down the main street, and procured a box of chocolates and a few other things, the two Rovers wandered off in the direction of the railroad station. A train had just come in, and they watched the passengers alight and then others get aboard. They were particularly interested in the discomfiture of a fat traveling salesman who came puffing up on the platform, a suitcase in each hand, just in time to see the train depart. The fat man was very angry, but this availed him nothing.
“It’s a shame! a shame!” howled the traveling salesman, as he threw his suitcases down in disgust. “I know that train left at least two minutes ahead of time,” he stormed to the station master.
“You’re wrong there, mister,” was the ready answer. “She was a minute late.”
“Nonsense! Nonsense!” stormed the disappointed individual. “I tell you she left ahead of time. I ought to sue the railroad company for this,” and he shook his head savagely.
“Gosh! we are up against people who want to sue everybody,” was Sam’s remark. “That fellow ought to join Chester Waltham, and then they could hire one lawyer to do the whole business.”
“I might have been here five minutes ago if I hadn’t been a fool,” stormed the fat salesman, as he looked for comfort at the two Rovers. “That comes from trying to be accommodating. I was headed for this place when down there at the Ludding House I met a fellow who wanted to know how to get to Stockbridge. He stuttered so that it took me about five minutes to find out what he wanted.”
“Stuttered, did he?” questioned Tom, curiously.
“He sure did! He had an awful stutter with a funny little whistle in between. I wish I hadn’t waited to listen to him. I might have had that train, confound it!” went on the fat salesman, pulling down his face.
“Did you say that fellow stuttered and whistled?” broke in Sam eagerly.
“He certainly did.”
“Will you tell me what kind of a looking man he was?”
“Sure!” answered the salesman, and then started to give as good a description of the individual as his recollection would permit.
“It must have been Blackie Crowden!” cried the youngest Rover, before the man had finished.
“I don’t know what his name was,” said the salesman.
“We want to catch that man the worst way,” went on Sam. “Have you any idea where we can find him?”
“He asked me the way to Stockbridge, so I suppose he was going there,” was the reply.
“Where is Stockbridge?”
“It’s down on the road past the Ludding House. It’s about five miles from here.”
“Do you suppose the man was going to walk it?”
“I don’t know about that. You must remember I was in a hurry to catch the train. Hang the luck! I wish I hadn’t stopped to talk to that man,” went on the fat salesman.
“And I’m very glad that you did stop to talk to him,” returned Sam. He looked at his brother. “Come on, Tom, let us see if we can find Blackie Crowden.”
CHAPTER XXII
ON THE TRAIL
The Ludding House was on the side street of the town, about three blocks from the hotel at which our friends were stopping. When the two Rovers arrived there they found the dining-room had just closed and only two men and an elderly woman were in sight.
“We are looking for a man who was around here—I think his name was Blackie Crowden,” said Sam. “He is a man who stutters very badly.”
“Oh, yes, I remember that fellow,” returned one of the men who worked around the hotel, “He was here for lunch.”
“Can you tell me where he is now?”
“No, I cannot.”
“That man who stuttered so terribly said something about going to Stockbridge,” put in the woman. “Perhaps he was going there.”
“On foot?”
“I don’t think so. Most likely he took the stage. That left about ten minutes ago.”
“Was the man alone?” asked Tom.
“I think he was, although I am not sure. He came in during the lunch hour and after that I saw him talking to a salesman who had been staying here—a man who just went off on the train.”
“You mean a man who went off to catch the train,” grinned Tom. “He didn’t get it, and he’s as mad as a hornet on that account.”
The two Rovers asked several more questions and found out that the stage which left Fernwood twice a day passed through Stockbridge on its way to Riverview, six miles farther on.
“They used to use horses,” explained the hotel man, “but last year Jerry Lagger got himself an auto, so he makes the run pretty quick these days.”
“Come on, Sam, let’s get one of our autos and follow that stage,” cried Tom, and set off on a run for the other hotel, quickly followed by his brother. They burst in on Dick just as the latter was posting the letter which he had written to their father.
“Say! that would be great if it was Blackie Crowden and we could capture him,” cried Dick, on hearing what they had to say. “You get the auto ready while I tell the others where we are going.”
“It’s a pity Stockbridge and Riverview are not on our regular tour,” was Sam’s comment.
“Oh, it’s just as well,” answered Tom. “We may have lots of trouble with this fellow Crowden, and it will be just as well if the girls and the ladies are not in it.”
One of the touring cars was quickly run to the front of the hotel, and a moment later Dick, who had rushed upstairs to explain matters to the others, came out and joined his brothers. Tom was at the wheel, and he lost no time in speeding up the car, and on they went along the dusty road in the direction of Stockbridge.
“I do hope they catch that fellow and get back Mr. Sanderson’s money,” was Grace’s comment, as she watched the departure of the touring car out of one of the upper windows of the hotel.
“What’s it all about?” asked Ada Waltham, who had not been present when Dick had burst in on the others. She was quickly told and then asked: “Why didn’t they take my brother along with them?”
“I don’t know, I am sure, Ada,” answered Grace. “Perhaps he wasn’t around.”
“He was down in the writing-room with Dick.”
“Well, I am sure I don’t know why he isn’t with them,” was the reply.
“I don’t think they are treating Chester just right,” retorted the rich girl, rather abruptly, and then left the room with her nose tilted high in the air.
“What a way to act!” murmured Nellie.
“I am afraid that sooner or later we will have some sort of rupture with the Walthams,” was Dora’s comment. She gave a little sigh. “Too bad! I should hate to have anything happen to spoil this tour.”
“Well, I don’t think the boys treat Chester Waltham just right,” returned Grace, somewhat coldly. “They treat him as if he were a stranger—an outsider,” and then she, too, left the room, leaving her sister and Dora to gaze at each other questioningly.
Along the dusty road sped the touring car, Tom running as rapidly as safety would permit. Soon Fernwood was left far behind and they began to ascend a slight hill.
Presently they came to a crossroad, and here they had to stop to study a much-faded signboard, so as to decide which was the proper road to take. Even then, as they continued their way, they were all a little doubtful.
“That signboard was so twisted it didn’t point right down this road,” was Sam’s comment. “It would be just like some boys to twist it out of shape just for the fun of sending folks on the wrong road.”
“Well, I played a joke like that myself, once,”
confessed Tom.
“Then if we are on the wrong road on account of some boys’ tricks, Tom, you’ll simply be getting paid back for what you did,” returned his older brother.
Half a mile more was covered, and then the road grew rapidly worse. Tom had slowed down, and was just on the point of stopping when a low hissing sound reached the ears of all.
“Good-night!” was Tom’s comment.
“What is it, Tom, a puncture?” queried Sam.
“Oh, no, it’s only a gas well trying to find its way to the surface of the ground,” was the dry comment. “Everybody out and to work!”
They leaped to the ground and soon saw that Sam’s conjecture was correct. A sharp stone had cut into one of the front shoes, making a hole about as large in diameter as a slate pencil.
“Might know a thing like this would happen just when we were in a hurry,” grumbled Dick.
“Never mind, now is our time to make a record,” came cheerfully from Sam. He glanced at his watch. “Four minutes after two. Come on, let us see how quickly we can get that new tire on.”
All threw off their coats and caps and set to work in the shade of some trees. While one jacked up the car, another worked to get off the damaged shoe and inner tube. In the meanwhile, the third got ready another shoe with an inner tube, and thus working hand in hand the three got the new tire in place and pumped up in less than ten minutes.
While Dick and Sam were putting away the tools, Tom walked a bit ahead on the road. He looked around a turn, and then came back much crestfallen.
“Well, I’m paid back for monkeying with those road-signs years ago,” he announced. “The fellows who fixed that sign some distance behind us have got one on me. This is nothing but a woods road, and ends in the timber right around the bend.”
“Which means that we have got to turn back and take the other road,” put in Sam, quickly.
“That’s it! Some fun turning around here,” was Dick’s comment. “It’s about as narrow as it was on that road where they were doing the blasting.”
“Oh, I guess I can make it,” answered Tom; and then all got in the car once again.
By going ahead and backing half a dozen times, Tom at last managed to get the touring car headed the other way. Then he put on speed once more and they raced off to where they had made the false turn.
But all this had taken time and as a consequence, although they ran along the other highway at a speed of nearly forty miles an hour, they saw nothing of the auto-stage which had gone on ahead.
“I guess this is Stockbridge,” was Dick’s comment, a little later, as they came in sight of a straggling village. Several buggies and farm wagons were in sight and likewise a couple of cheap automobiles, but nothing that looked like a stage.
“Has the auto-stage from Fernwood got in yet?” questioned Sam of a storekeeper who sat in a tilted chair under the wooden awning of his establishment.
“Yes, it got in some time ago,” was the drawled-out reply of the storekeeper.
“Then has it gone on to Riverview?” queried Dick.
“Reckon it has, stranger.”
“Do you know if any passengers got off here?” asked Tom.
“Old Mrs. Harrison got off.”
“Anybody else?”
“I didn’t see anybody else,—but then I wasn’t watchin’ very closely,” explained the storekeeper.
The only other persons in sight besides the storekeeper were two children, too small to be questioned about the stage passengers. The Rovers looked at each other questioningly.
“Might as well go right through and follow that stage,” said Dick. “If he is on board, there is no use of letting him get away. If he isn’t, we can come back here and look for him.”
The others deemed this good advice, and in a moment more they left Stockbridge at a rate of speed which made the storekeeper leap up from his comfortable chair to gaze after them in amazement.
“Some of them speeders,” he murmured to himself. “If they don’t look out they’ll be took in for breakin’ the law.”
For a mile or more the road outside of Stockbridge was fairly good. Beyond, it grew poorer and poorer, and Tom had to reduce speed once more for fear of another puncture, or a blowout. As they sped along the highway all the youths kept a sharp lookout for Blackie Crowden, but no one came in sight who answered in the least to the description of that individual.
“I’m sure I’d know him if I saw him,” said Sam, who had studied a copy of the man’s photograph.
“So would I,” answered Tom. “He’s got a face that is somewhat unusual;” and to this Dick agreed.
On and on they went, the road now being little more than a country lane. Here the dust was about six inches deep, and a big cloud floated behind the machine.
“Almost looks as if we were on the wrong road again,” observed Dick. But hardly had he spoken when they came out to another crossroad. Here a signboard pointed to the left, and the highway was as good as any they had yet traveled.
“Only one mile more!” cried Sam.
“It won’t take long to cover that,” answered Tom, and then turned on the power, and in less than two minutes more they were approaching the center of Riverview, a fair-sized town located on the stream which gave it its name.
“There is the auto-stage, drawn up in front of the hotel,” announced Sam.
“Yes. And it’s empty,” answered Dick.
The driver of the auto-stage was at the town pump getting a drink of water. He looked at the three Rovers curiously as they confronted him.
“Did I have a passenger that stuttered?” he repeated in answer to their question. “I sure did have such a fellow. Why, he stuttered wo’se than any man I ever heard. And he whistled too. Awful funny. Why, I had all I could do to keep from laughin’ in his face.”
“We want to find that man very much and right away,” announced Dick. “Will you let us know where you let him off?”
“That’s a funny thing, mister,” announced the auto-stage driver. “You see, after we left Stockbridge I didn’t have nobody in but that man. He paid me the fare to this place before I started. Then when we was about half-way here I looked around in the back of the stage and, by gum! he was gone.”
“Gone!” came from the three Rovers.
“Yes, sir, he was gone. I looked back and there he stood on the side of the road. As soon as he saw that I saw him, he waved his hand to me and disappeared.”
CHAPTER XXIII
BACK AT ASHTON
The three Rovers listened in astonishment to what the auto-stage driver had to say concerning the sudden disappearance of Blackie Crowden.
“Then he must have jumped from the stage while you were running,” remarked Dick.
“That’s just what he did do, mister. And he took some chances, too, believe me, for I wasn’t runnin’ at less than twenty miles an hour.”
“Did he have any baggage with him?” questioned Tom.
“He had a small handbag, that’s all.”
“Would you remember the place where he jumped off?” came from Sam, eagerly.
“Yes, it was on the road back of here—just before you turn into this highway.”
“You mean the road that was so thick with dust?” remarked Tom.
“That’s the place. He jumped off at a spot where the bushes are pretty thick, and there are three trees standin’ close together just back of the bushes.”
“I think I know that place,” said Dick. “There is a small white cottage on the hillside just behind it.”
“You’ve struck it,” answered the stage driver. “I reckon as how he was goin’ to call on somebody at the cottage. But why he didn’t ask me to stop is a mystery. Why! he might have broken a leg gettin’ off that way.”
“That man is a criminal, and he did it to throw you off his
track,” announced Sam. “Do you know what I think?” he continued to his brothers. “I think Blackie Crowden must have gotten on to the fact that we were at Fernwood, and made up his mind to clear out as soon as possible. Then he got afraid that we might question folks, including this stage driver, and so jumped from the auto-stage to throw us off his trail, provided we should follow the stage.”
“I guess you have struck the nail on the head, Sam,” answered his oldest brother. “But come on, let us see if we can find some trace of him.” And in less than a minute more they had turned their machine around and were heading for the spot mentioned to them by the stage driver.
It was only a short run, and soon they halted beside the bushes hedging in three tall trees. Eagerly they looked around in all directions, but not a soul was in sight.
“I’m going up to the farmhouse,” announced Sam.
“And I’ll go with you,” added Dick. “Tom, you stay down here and take a look around. If you see anything of him blow the auto horn three times.”
At the farmhouse the two Rovers found themselves confronted by an elderly man and his wife, who looked at them rather curiously.
“No, there hasn’t been anybody around here so far as I know,” announced the farmer. “We haven’t had a visitor for several days.”
“I was out to the well about five minutes ago,” put in his wife, “and if anybody had come up to the house or the barn I’d have seen him.”
“The fellow we are after is a criminal,” explained Dick, “so if you don’t mind we’ll take a look around for him.”
“A criminal!” cried the farmer. “Say, that’s bad! Certainly look around all you please, and I hope if he is anywhere near you’ll catch him. I’d go around with you myself, only I can’t very well on account of this rheumatism of mine.”
The two Rovers walked around the cottage and the out-buildings but found not the least trace of Blackie Crowden. Then, rather crestfallen, they returned to the automobile.
“Perhaps there’s some mistake and it wasn’t Crowden at all,” was Sam’s comment.
“Well, it was a man who stuttered, anyway, and the general description fitted Crowden,” answered his brother.
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