old hunter and traveler had taken a strong liking to autoing. The girls and boys had piled in, after much handshaking and some kisses, and now the car was rolling out of the grounds, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Wadsworth, Dave’s father, and old Caspar Potts standing on the piazza, waving the travelers adieu.
“Take care of yourself, my boy!” shouted Mr. Porter.
“I will, Dad!” called back Dave. “You take it easy till I get back,” he added, for he knew that his parent had been working hard of late.
“I hate to see Dave go – he is so full of life and good cheer,” murmured Mrs. Wadsworth, with a sigh.
“Best lad in the world,” added her husband.
“Yes, yes! The very best!” came in a quavering voice from old Caspar Potts, and the tears stood in his glistening eyes.
“I trust he comes through this year at Oak Hall all right,” resumed Mr. Porter, as, the automobile having disappeared, those left behind reentered the house. “He wishes to graduate, you know.”
“Don’t you think he’ll come through?” asked the manufacturer, quickly.
“I’m not sure about it. He has lost so much time – on that trip he and the others took – you know.”
“That is true.”
“Oh, Davy will come through, never fear!” cried Caspar Potts. “I know the lad. If he makes up his mind – well, it’s as good as done,” and he nodded his whitened head several times. To the old college professor who knew him so well, there was no youth quite so clever and manly as Dave Porter.
In the meantime the big touring car was leaving Crumville rapidly behind. On the front seat, beside Mr. Porter, sat Phil, waving an Oak Hall banner and cracking all kinds of jokes. In the back were the two girls with Dave and Roger. All were well bundled up, for the air, though clear, was still cold.
“Here is where we make fifty miles an hour!” cried the shipowner’s son, gayly.
“Oh, Phil!” burst out Laura. “Fifty miles an hour! Uncle Dunston, don’t you dare–”
“Phil is fooling,” interrupted her uncle.
“That’s it – I made a mistake – we are to go at sixty miles an hour, just as soon as we pass the next chicken coop. We won’t dare do it before, for fear of blowing the coop over. We–”
“Why not make it seventy-five miles while you are at it,” broke in Dave. “Nothing like going the limit.” And at this there was a general laugh.
“There is a bad turn ahead,” said Dunston Porter, a minute later. “They have torn up part of the road around the hill. We’ll have to take it pretty slowly.”
The touring car crept up the hill, past several heaps of dirt, and then started to come down on the other side. Here there was a sharp curve, with heavy bushes on both sides. Mr. Porter blew the horn loud and long, to warn anybody ahead that he was coming.
“Look out!” yelled Phil, suddenly. But the warning was not necessary, for Dunston Porter saw the danger and so did the others. A horse and buggy were just ahead on the torn-up highway, going in the same direction as themselves. The horse was prancing and rearing and the driver was sawing at the lines in an effort to quiet the steed. It looked as if there might be a collision.
CHAPTER III
A TALK OF THE FUTURE
The girls screamed and the boys uttered various cries and words of advice. Dave leaned forward, to jam on the hand-brake, but his uncle was ahead of him in the action. The foot-brake was already down, and from the rear wheels came a shrill squeaking, as the bands gripped the hubs. But the hill was a steep one and the big touring car, well laden, continued to move downward, although but slowly.
“Keep over! Keep over to the right!” yelled Dunston Porter, to the driver of the buggy. But the man was fully as excited as his horse, and he continued to saw on the reins, until the turnout occupied the very center of the narrow and torn-up highway.
It was a time of peril, and a man less used to critical moments than Dunston Porter might have lost his head completely. But this old traveler and hunter, who had faced grizzly bears in the West and lions in Africa, managed to keep cool. He saw a chance to pass on the right of the turnout ahead, and like a flash he let go on the two brakes and turned on a little power. Forward bounded the big car, the right wheels on the very edge of a water-gully. The left mud-guards scraped the buggy, and the man driving it uttered a yell of fright. Then the touring car went on, to come to a halt at the bottom of the hill, a short distance away.
“Hello!” exclaimed Dave, as he looked back at the turnout that had caused the trouble. “It’s Mr. Poole!”
“You mean Nat’s father?” queried Phil.
“Yes.”
“Hi, you! What do you mean by running into me?” stormed the money-lender, savagely, as he presently managed to get his steed under control and came down beside the touring car.
“What do you mean by blocking the road, Mr. Poole?” returned Dunston Porter, coldly.
“I didn’t block the road!”
“You certainly did. If we had run into you, it would have been your fault.”
“Nonsense! You passed me on the wrong side.”
“Because you didn’t give me room to pass on the other side.”
“And your horn scared my horse.”
“I don’t see how that is my fault. Your horse ought to be used to auto-horns by this time.”
“You’ve scraped all the paint off my carriage, and I had it painted only last week,” went on the money-lender, warming up. “It’s an outrage how you auto fellows think you own the whole road!”
“I won’t discuss the matter now, Mr. Poole,” answered Dunston Porter, stiffly. “I think it was your fault entirely. But if you think otherwise, come and see me when I get back from this trip, which will be in four days.” And without waiting for more words, Dave’s uncle started up the touring car, and Aaron Poole was soon left far behind.
“If he isn’t a peach!” murmured Roger, slangily. “It’s easy to see where Nat gets his meanness from. He is simply a chip off the old block.”
“He’s a pretty big chip,” returned Phil, dryly.
“I don’t see how he can blame us,” said Dave. “We simply couldn’t pass him on the left. If we had tried, we’d have gone in the ditch sure. And the scraping we did to his buggy amounts to next to nothing.”
“I am not afraid of what he’ll do,” said Dunston Porter. “A couple of dollars will fix up those scratches, and if he is so close-fisted I’ll foot the bill. But I’ll give him a piece of my mind for blocking the road.”
“But his horse was frightened, Uncle Dunston,” said Laura.
“A little, yes, but if Poole hadn’t got scared himself he might have drawn closer to the side of the road. I think he was more frightened than the horse.”
“He
