CHAPTER I: JERRY IS ABSENT-MINDED

“Pretty good game; wasn’t it?”

“It sure was—a corker!”

“I thought our Cresville boys wouldn’t be able to pull up, after the Red Sox got that big lead on ’em, but they certainly played their heads off.”

“They sure did. The pitcher won the game for them with that last wallop of his!”

“That’s right,” remarked a stout lad, one of a group of three who were walking slowly across the green diamond at the conclusion of a ball match.

“The umpire made some pretty rank decisions,” added the boy who had made the first comment, glancing across in front of his companion, who, in the middle of the trio, separated the two speakers.

“You’re right,” commented the stout youth.

The two exchanged looks—queer glances, and, as if by mutual consent, gazed up at the face of their chum who walked between them. Then the stout lad winked.

“What’s the matter, Jerry?” he asked. “Didn’t you like the game?”

“Game? What game? Oh, yes—sure I liked it!” was the hurried response, as though the speaker’s thoughts had been far afield when the import of the question was grasped. “It was a good little game,” went on the lad in the centre of the trio. “Too bad our boys didn’t win, though!”

“Too bad!” echoed the stout lad. “Why, what——”

“Didn’t win!” interrupted the other. “Say, Jerry, what’s got into you? The Cresville team did win!”

“Oh, did they? That’s funny! I guess I didn’t pay much attention toward the last.”

“No, and not toward the beginning, either, I guess,” grumbled the stout lad. “I wonder what’s gotten into him,” he thought.

“So they won; did they, Bob?” asked the lad addressed as Jerry. “Well, I’m glad of it.”

“Of course they won, Jerry Hopkins,” was the quick answer. “And this practically clinches the local championship for them, too. It was a corking good game; wasn’t it, Ned?”

“Now you’re talking! A good crowd, too,” and Ned Slade looked at the throng pouring down from grandstand and bleachers.

“What shall we do?” asked Bob Baker, the stout lad before referred to. “I vote not to go home just yet. It’s early. Let’s take a little spin down the road.”

“All right,” agreed Ned. “Shall we, Jerry?”

“Eh? Oh, yes, I’m in for whatever you fellows say. It’ll be nice on the river to-day.”

“River! Who said anything about the river?” demanded Ned. “Do you think we came to this ball game in our motor boat, Jerry Hopkins? Say, what’s the matter with you to-day, anyhow? We’re talking about taking a spin in the auto. Will you come along?”

“Oh, sure I’ll go. You know that!” exclaimed Jerry, and with an effort he seemed to recall his thoughts from whatever distant realms they roamed. “Sure we’ll go for a spin. I guess I was thinking about the ball game.”

Ned and Bob each gave their chum a queer look, but they said nothing. Only Ned thought to himself:

“Thinking about the ball game; eh? That won’t go with me, when, a little while ago, he didn’t even know which side had won. There’s something wrong with Jerry. I wonder what it is?”

But, whatever it was, it did not seem to be anything very serious, for soon Jerry smiled at his chums, and clapping Bob on the shoulder with a force that made the stout youth grunt, exclaimed:

“Sure we’ll go for a spin! It will give us an appetite for supper, and I seem to need one. I’ve been a little off my feed the last few days.”

At this Bob looked worried. Eating was something in which he took a great deal of interest. Perhaps it was that which made him so stout, and had gained for him the nickname of “Chunky,” which his chums occasionally called him.

The three boys—the “motor boys” they were locally called—because they so often rode about in motor vehicles—automobiles, motor boats, or motor-driven airships—had come to the ball game in their auto which stood parked, with a number of others, back of the grandstand. Thither they now made their way.

The air was filled with the noisy chug-chug of scores of machines as they backed, turned and darted ahead to get from the ball field to the road. In and out of the receding throng the autoists guided their cars. On all sides were talk and laughter—talk of the game just finished, congratulatory calls to the winners, and expressions of regret for the losers.

“Yes, it sure was some nifty little game,” remarked Bob, as the chums reached their machine. “Are you going to drive, Jerry?” he asked.

“I will if you want me to—sure.”

“I hope he pays more attention to the wheel than he did to the ball game,” remarked Ned, with a slow shake of his head. “If he doesn’t he’s likely to have us up a tree, or in the ditch.”

But he made no objection as Jerry took his place at the wheel, and slipped in the switch key of the electric starter. Ned and Bob got in the tonneau, and Jerry, looking back to see that both doors were closed, was about to start off when a voice behind the machine cried:

“Hold on! Wait a minute! I won’t be a second! Give me a lift; will you? I forgot all about it! Terrible important message! Dad’ll be wild if I don’t deliver it! Great game; wasn’t it? Our boys won fine! Here I am! Let her go! Never say die! Whizz her along, Jerry! I’m here! Let her out, do you hear? Move the boat!”

A small youth, very much excited as to manner and words sprang, leaped, scrambled, climbed, hopped, jumped, vaulted and fell into the vacant seat beside Jerry. He sat there, his breath coming in gasps, both from his run and from his outpouring of words.

Jerry, with a quizzical smile, looked down at him; Bob, with half-opened mouth, leaned forward to gaze; and Ned shook his head in a hopeless fashion, murmuring:

“Is it all over, Andy Rush?”

“Is—is what—all over?” demanded the small chap.

“Everything,” answered Ned, throwing his hands in the air. “Your talk—your—your—well, you know what I mean. Is it all over?”

“Of course it is,” was the quick answer. “You can go ahead now, Jerry,” he added, as though they had been waiting for him.

“Well, I like your nerve!” gasped Bob, who at length found his voice.

“That’s all right. I saw you had a vacant place!” exclaimed Andy, starting off in another “spasm.” Then he proceeded:

“I’ve got to get back to town in a hurry. Important message—dad told me not to forget, but I did—went to the ball game. Say, it was great; wasn’t it? That fly of Watson’s—up in the air—thought it would never come down—run around the bases—nobody out—whoop her up! Everybody run! Nobody out—all over!”

He had reared up in his seat to “explode” this, and now sank back again.

Jerry looked at the diminutive orator.

“Are you all through, Andy?” asked the tall lad, gently. “If you are, we’ll start, with your kind permission and attention. Only we’re not going back to town right away, so if you have an important message to deliver you’d better walk, or take a hop, skip and a jump into someone else’s car. We’re going to take a little ride, and we don’t know when we’ll get back.”

“Oh, well, I guess it isn’t so important after all,” spoke Andy, slowly. “I’ll go with you. I’ll leave the message when I come back. You are coming back; aren’t you?” he asked.

“No telling,” answered Ned, winking at Jerry. “We may take a notion to run over to San Francisco and spend the night.”

“Huh! I don’t care,” laughed Andy. “I’ll go along. I can telephone the message back, I guess. Let me go; will you?”

“Oh, well, there’s no getting ahead of you, Andy,” conceded Jerry. “Stay in, if you like. Only don’t blame us if your dad wants to know why his message wasn’t delivered.”

“That’s right,” chimed in Ned. “Let her go, Jerry. It’s hot sitting here in the sun.”

There was a whine and a whirr, as the electric starter spun the flywheel of the big automobile. Then came a snap, as the gears meshed, and as the clutch slipped into place the machine slowly backed to a clear place. Then, as Jerry threw in the first forward speed, it shot ahead, and, a...