Looks like you was a-rarin’ to go somewhere,” put in Pan Handle.

“How air you, boy?” queried Tim, serenely.

“Say, you seem mighty all-fired glad to see me,” replied Cal, sarcastically, running his keen gaze from one to another. They were cool, lazy, smiling, tranquil. Cal knew them. The deeper their plot the harder they were to reach! Their very serenity was a mask hiding an enormous guilt. Cal shivered in his boots. How he wished this day was over! At the same instant a warmth stirred in him—the thought of Tuck Merry.

Cal pushed the boys away from the Ford car and began to prowl around it to see if they had done anything to it. Here he was almost helpless. He examined engine, tires, wheel, and the various parts necessary to the operation of the car, but he could not be sure whether they had tampered with it or not. Certainly they had not had much time to do anything. Nevertheless, with the garage mechanics in the secret, they might have accomplished a good deal. Had he missed a bolt in this place? It was impossible to remember. Had he ever before noticed a crack in the floor extending across the front of the car? He could not recall it. The old Ford presented an enigma. Cal distrusted the looks of it, yet had no proof of his suspicions.

“Say, if you hombres have been monkeyin’ with this car!” he exclaimed, glaring darkly at them.

“Cal, you shore are a chivulrus fellar where ladies are concerned,” drawled Wess, “but you ain’t got any but low-down idees for your relations an’ friends.”

“Reckon you ain’t insinuatin’ I’d do some underhand trick?” queried Pan Handle, reproachfully.

“Cal, you’ve been punched more’n onct fer insultin’ remarks,” added Tim Matthews, meaningly.

“Aw!” burst out Cal, exploding helplessly. “You fellows can’t pull the wool over my eyes. You’re up to some deviltry, an’ I’m bettin’, from the looks of you an’ your soft-soap talk, it’s pretty skunky. . . . An’ as for your punch, Tim Matthews, I’d like to know if you think you can go on punchin’ me forever?”

“Wal, mebbe forever would be farfetched,” replied Tim, dryly. “But jest so long as you live I shore will be able to punch you.”

Cal gazed steadily into the grinning face of his friend.

“Tim, you’re the big gambler of the Thurman outfit, aren’t you?”

“Wal, I reckon thet distinctshun has been forced upon me,” replied Tim, with nonchalance not devoid of pride.

“Ahuh!—You know my black horse Pitch, don’t you, an’ how you’ve tried to buy, borrow, an’ steal him?”

“I’m denyin’ the last allegashun,” retorted Tim, testily.

“Well, I’m bettin’ Pitch against your bronc Baldy that I lick you before I’m a year older.”

All the boys stared, and Tim’s lean jaw dropped.

“Boy, hev you been drinkin’?” he asked, incredulously.

“Bah! You know I never drink,” retorted Cal. “Are you on—or are you afraid to bet?”

“See heah, Cal,” interposed Wess, “thet’s a fool bet! You know you love Pitch an’ he was Enoch’s gift to you—the best hoss ever broke in the Tonto.”

“Sure I know, an’ you can gamble I wouldn’t bet if I didn’t know I could lick Tim,” returned Cal.

Tim came out of his trance to seize his golden opportunity.

“Boys, I call his bluff. The bet’s on—my Baldy ag’in’ his hoss Pitch. An’ all of you paste the date in your hats. Savvy? . . . An’, Cal, I hate to take your hoss, but my pride is ag’in’ such fresh gab as yours.”

“Pride goes before a fall, my friend Timothy,” said Cal, deliberately. “Now, boys, I call on you, too. An’ listen.