rapid ride. Their car ran beautifully and in scarcely more time than is required to state the fact its glistening wheels and body, its shining wind shield, lamps and horn had disappeared at the park gate far down the avenue.

Had you happened to be in that well-known city of the Middle West, Lannington, on this early day of June in the year 190—, and had you noticed this particular automobile as, guided by well-trained hands, it swept with a flourish around the curve and in through the park entrance, quite possibly you would have wished to make inquiry concerning the car and its occupants. There was something of quiet distinction about the latter and about the machine and the way it was handled.

Inquiry from any person interested in boys or motoring or both—and who is not?—would have been, indeed, entirely natural. Nor would the veriest stranger have experienced difficulty in obtaining information. While in no sense were they especially prominent because of wealth, exalted social position or otherwise, the Auto Boys, as the four were called, were at least well known.

Introduced briefly and individually they are Phil Way, Billy Worth, Dave MacLester and Paul Jones. Just what sort of lads they are will become apparent as the acquaintanceship progresses. At the present moment attention must be returned to the spot they have so recently quitted—the little green and yellow building beneath the elms.

A very tidy structure is the small garage the four friends call their own. It stands at the end of the drive leading out past the blooming syringas and a great bed of vari-colored peonies to the street. Approach and entrance from that direction are very convenient. Or entrance by way of the alley, in the rear, may be accomplished quite as easily. Its doors, both front and back, are the largest things about the building. With both opened wide the automobile can be driven directly through. To back the car out is unnecessary at any time. Driving in from the rear means simply driving out through the front doors, or vice versa.

The custom of the young proprietors of this model establishment of its kind with reference to coming and going with the car was well known among their acquaintances. It was well known, too, that at most times the alley doors of the garage were kept closed and locked. Just why any of their friends should remain waiting at that side of the building, therefore, with them inside and the machine headed toward the street, as a glance in at the back window would easily show, might well be considered a trifle mysterious.

Also, just why any friend should apply an ear to the small crack between the door and the wall of the building proper—stooping down in an attitude of thoughtful attention upon all that was taking place inside—might well be made a subject of inquiry.

Nevertheless precisely such a situation had existed to-day. A sharp-eyed young fellow, not much less than sixteen years of age, had stood for all of ten minutes in practically the position indicated. Not until the automobile and its owners had departed did he also leave, walking hastily down the alley and keeping much closer under the cover of the high, tight-board fence than would seem entirely necessary.

The young man was too respectable in his general appearance to be mistaken for a tramp or other type of vagabond loitering about for no good purpose. Nor had he any of the usual sneak-thief characteristics, suspicious as his actions were. Only a half-surly, half-defiant expression about his hawk-like eyes and a scowl above his heavy brows gave a clue to his thoughts and purposes. It was easy to guess that in some way he had suffered a disappointment.

At the corner of a residence street upon which the lad presently emerged, his face lighted up. Smiling, as if he had concluded to think better of the matter whatever it may have been, he spoke quite aloud, yet in a low tone: "'And they piled three stones on top of one another to mark the place. One was a big field stone, another a flat stone and the third, which was at the top, was conglomerate.'" And then a moment later, "'Conglomerate! All full of pebbles like coarse gravel!' As if any man didn't know 'conglomerate'!"

There was something coarse and rasping in the way the boy repeated the latter phrase of the words he had overheard at the green and yellow shed. It suggested both maliciousness and mischief. His further language as he spoke in undertones to no ears but his own was confirmation of such an opinion. "Plenty of time yet. Guess wherever any old thirty horse-power motor can go, a forty-five can follow! Confound those little beasts! I don't see where they can be!"

That the young man's latter remark, even less amiable than it was complimentary, had reference to someone whom he expected to see, was made apparent a few minutes later when a heavy car of the roadster type, too lumbering to be of the best, came suddenly around the corner and stopped at the curb near him. The machine carried two young fellows of about his own age.

"Been looking for you everywhere, Pick," said one of the two—he at the wheel—"You said you'd go out Chestnut. What you doing way down here on the avenue?"

"Said nothin' of the kind," growled the sharp-eyed one. "I said I'd meet you right here on Green Avenue. Been looking for you till—"

"You did not!" spoke the other of the two in the car. "I know what you said!"

But by that time the lad called "Pick" had seated himself in the double rumble, and as the automobile moved forward—"Oh shut up!" he answered moodily. "I'm sore! Still nothing to it but talk of the three stones. Anyhow, though, I've got the exact words about them," and with this he repeated the description of three stones, piled one on top of another, substantially as he had overheard the same.

"Well, they're going somewhere and they're going to start soon. I've found out that much, for sure," spoke the chap who drove. He was a really likable looking fellow, named Perth—Fred, or more often Freddy, when addressed by his first name.

The lad beside him was "Soapy"—otherwise Harry—Gaines, the somewhat spoiled son of one of the very few rich men in Lannington. He was of such uncertain temper, slipping so far beyond the reach of ordinary mortals and putting on ever and again so vast an air of superiority, possibly because of the paternal wealth, but with or without cause or reason, that his nickname seemed well applied. He it was who claimed ownership of the Roadster.

"Course they're going somewhere! Haven't we known it all along? Didn't they say themselves they were going, and just as good as tell us we wasn't wanted, when we told 'em we'd go with 'em? Humph! They've had a plan rigged up this long while and making such a mystery of it that half the town wonders what they're up to."

He of the hawk eyes—otherwise "Pick," otherwise Tom Pickton—was the speaker. The coarse, rasping quality of his voice was the more pronounced as he put more contempt in it. "Just the same, I'm thinking they can't go where we can't follow—if we like; eh, Gaines?" It was in quite a different key, though the voice was still harsh as a file, that Pickton addressed the owner of the machine.

The latter young gentleman said that with his car he could run circles around the persons to whom the other made reference. He was of the opinion that nothing more interesting could be desired, however, than merely to trail along behind the Auto Boys, (for it was to them that the conversation referred) and by thus being constantly present, annoy and harass them in a way that would be a "deuced lot o' fun."

Then, too, if the four chums who had declined the self-extended invitation that Soapy and his friends accompany them, had in mind the secret exploring of a mystery, a search for a robbers' cave or some such thing, which was considered to be their real purpose, they would be enabled to carry out their plan, at last, only by making terms with the Chosen Trio.

The Chosen Trio, it will be