warning you.”

“Oh, you two. Can’t you take a little joke? Of course, I meant his father. What’s the difference, anyway? Father, old man—”

“Careful!” Jerry snapped.

“Oh, all right. All I meant was that I was wondering if Sandy’s old, uh, if Mr. Steele was going to Minnesota to make ore testings. Is he?” Pepper rushed on eagerly, dropping his customary air of superiority.

“Nosy, aren’t you?” Jerry grinned, but Sandy stopped him before he could make further sport of the nettled Pepper.

“Why do you want to know?” Sandy asked evenly.

Pepper shrugged. “Just curious, that’s all.” He finished his Coke and got off his stool with a jaunty air, and just then, Sandy Steele had a sudden inspiration.

“I know why you want to know!” he said triumphantly. “That’s why you’re going to South America with your father, isn’t it? To inspect the South American ore fields!”

Pepper whirled in anger. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?” he snarled, and Sandy smiled and said, “I never said it, Pepper.”

“Oh, yes, you do!” Pepper went on, furious by now. “But let me tell you, Mr. Goody-Goody, maybe we are going to South America to look for ore! And that’s nobody’s business but ours. And furthermore, my old man says that anybody who bothers with the Mesabi mines any more must be crazy! You hear that, Steele? So your old—” he stopped short at a warning glance from Sandy, before racing on—“so your father’s going to Minnesota on a wild-goose chase. He isn’t going to find anything but a lot of dirt! And while you two dopes are sweating away in a worked-out iron mine, I’ll be sailing up the Orinoco River on my father’s yacht.” He smirked, threw a dime on the counter, made a little mocking bow at the door, and went out.

For a moment, there was silence in the drugstore. Then Jerry James picked up Pepper’s glass, rinsed it and dried it off and returned it to the shelf. With a wink, he turned to his friend and said, “That Pepper’s sure a windbag, isn’t he?” Sandy shook his head. His face was sober.

“I wish it was just talk, Jerry,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s true. Dad said tonight there was a possibility of just that very thing happening. And he said it would be a terrible thing for American industry if we had to start buying our iron ore in South America.”

For another moment, Sandy Steele frowned. He pushed his cowlick back from his eyes and struck the counter top with the flat of his hand. “Boy,” he said grimly, “now I’ve got another good reason for hoping that Dad finds what he’s looking for in Minnesota!”

CHAPTER TWO
The Long Boats

Two weeks later, Old Faithful chugged away from the curb in front of the Steele home with the farewells of Sandy’s mother ringing in the ears of both boys.

“Goodbye, Sandy; goodbye, Jerry,” she had cried, waving one hand with a gaiety that was at odds with the tears forming in her eyes. “Be good boys, both of you. And please be careful! Give my love to your father, Sandy.”

“Okay, Mom,” Sandy had shouted back. “And tell Aunt Netty I’ll send her a postcard.”

Mrs. Steele had nodded and brushed a hand across her eyes. Then she waved again. For fully another minute, she stood on the porch steps watching until the freshly painted jalopy piled high with luggage and other belongings at last disappeared around a corner. Then, with a sigh, she went inside to begin packing for her own visit to a widowed sister who lived in northern California.

In the front seat of Old Faithful, meanwhile, there was anything but tears. Both boys wore wide grins on their faces as they rolled down the main street in Valley View, waving and calling cheerfully to friends that they passed. As they neared the bus terminal, they saw Quiz Taylor herding a group of boys into a big station wagon.

“So long, Quiz,” Sandy called. “See you in September.”

Quiz Taylor looked up and his round, bespectacled face broke into an affectionate grin. “So long, boys,” he yelled. “Hope you have an ore-full time.”

Both Jerry and Sandy made wry faces at Quiz’s terrible pun, but then they burst into good-natured laughter and waved again to their stubby friend as Old Faithful sped on down the street.

“He’s something, that Quiz,” Jerry said.

“He sure is,” Sandy said. “I kind of wish he were coming along.”

“Well,” Jerry said slowly, spinning the wheel to make the turn that would take them through the higher part of town lying between them and the highway, “Quiz would be okay if we were going to write a history about ore mines. But working in one? Nosirree!”

“I guess you’re right, Jerry. Give Quiz a week up there and he’d have the whole history of mining memorized, backward and for—”

“Oh, ho,” Jerry said, interrupting. “Do you see what I see?”

Sandy leaned forward. They were passing along Ridge Road, the finest street in town. A hundred yards ahead of them, in front of the March mansion, a big black Cadillac limousine was drawn up to the curb. A uniformed chauffeur held the rear door open while Mr. March got in. Standing on the curb, awaiting his turn, was Stanley Peperdine March.

“Shall we wave to the stinker?” Jerry asked with a grin.

“Might as well,” Sandy said. “No sense in holding a grudge.”

“Okay,” Jerry said, and as Old Faithful came abreast of the shining, expensive March car, he tooted the horn gaily and called out, “Hi-ya, Pepper, old sport.”

“Hi, Pepper,” Sandy yelled, and lifted his hand to wave. But Pepper March had looked up and stiffened when he heard Jerry’s voice. He stared straight at them both with open dislike, and then, as Sandy Steele raised his hand in greeting, Pepper March raised his to his nose and wiggled his fingers at both of them!

There was a silence in the front seat of Old Faithful. At last, it was broken by Jerry James, saying in disgust, “See what I mean, Sandy? You’re too nice to that stinker.”

“Oh, well,” Sandy said. “At least we can look forward to a whole summer without Pepper.”

Then Jerry slipped his jalopy into second gear as they descended the steep ramp leading down to the highway. In a moment, they had reached the broad cement strip and Jerry carefully forced the speedometer up to a point a few miles below the limit. Then he let out a long exultant yell. “Only two thousand miles to go, Sandy!” he shouted above the roar of Old Faithful’s motor.

“Yep,” Sandy said. “Minnesota, here we come!”

What a trip it was, from inland California east and north to the shores of Lake Superior! The boys alternated at the wheel during those glorious five days. They averaged 400 miles a day. For the first time, they got a notion of the grandeur of their country, as Old Faithful whined patiently up the terrific grades of the Rocky Mountains and the boys could see the gigantic peaks rearing grandly in the air.

Then they were rushing down again into the valley of the Great Salt Lake in Utah and through the clean, neat streets of Salt Lake City. After climbing again into Wyoming, they drove across the Bad Lands of South Dakota into Minnesota. It was wonderful, indeed, driving by day, frequently pausing to take in the sights, and sleeping out under the stars.

One night they chose a farmer’s field to spread their sleeping bags in. In the morning, Sandy awoke suddenly. He had dreamed that his mother had come