making as much as ten miles an hour right now!” laughed Hugh.

“Which rate of speed, if continued, would fetch us to the camp in less than five hours, wouldn’t it?” demanded the now sanguine Blake.

“Oh! well, the worst is yet to come!” grinned Bud Morgan. “You see, we’re going on the level now, and there happens to be some pretty tough old hills which have to be surmounted before we reach our haven. Hills can play hob with most old worn-out cars. I’m not boasting any yet, Blake, you notice; hold your horses, and we’ll see what happens.”

For some little time they continued to move along fairly well, and a number of miles were placed behind them. Indeed, they had even managed to climb several good-sized elevations; and, although once it seemed as though the machinery was about to give up with a last groan, clever Bud managed to pull the machine to the top of the rise, so that they could coast down the declivity, which they did in great style.

“She can run like a bird, once you cut the power off, and let her coast,” shrilled the enthusiastic pilot, as they continued to “scoot” along the level below.

“Whee! but look what’s ahead of us?” cried Blake, in an appalled tone.

“Oh! that hill isn’t half as bad as it seems,” Bud told him. “I’m going to take it on the run, and get to the top, all right, watch me!”

He made an heroic effort to accomplish the end he had in view, and, in fact, did manage to negotiate more than three-fourths of the climb. Then suddenly the engine gave up the ghost, and only through a frantic use of the brake did the pilot keep the car from starting backward down the steep incline.

“Well, here we are, held up!” he remarked, calmly; “it’s up to me to get busy and see what’s wrong.”

“I’ll help you to it, Bud,” Hugh told him, stripping off his coat, and donning one of the old linen dusters Bud had thoughtfully fetched along for just this purpose, since he suspected they would find good use for it.

They were a busy bunch for the next hour, the two boys most of the time working under the car and Blake hovering near, growing more and more anxious as the precious minutes slipped past.

“How far have we come, do you reckon, Hugh?” he asked once.

“I should say about seventeen miles,” the other replied, after mental figuring; “though that’s only a guess, because we don’t happen to have any way of telling. This car isn’t equipped with a cyclometer, you know, or any other thing that costs money. I’m surprised that the tires have held out so well.”

“That isn’t much more than one-third of the way to camp, either,” declared Blake, disconsolately. “I’m wondering what I could do in case, after all your work, you fail to coax the poor old engine into going again. It’ll be too bad if we get to the camp too late to carry that letter back to Uncle Reuben in time; for he is a terrible man to keep his word, and he’ll make that new will tomorrow night as sure as anything, unless he hears from Felix by sundown.”

“Well, if it comes to the worst,” Hugh told him, soothingly, “you could wire Uncle Reuben to hold up, and that a letter was on the way with an ample apology. I suppose you don’t have any doubt about Felix giving you such a letter, Blake?”

“No, I don’t, Hugh. Not that he cares so much about the old gentleman’s money, because, you see, he has some of his own coming to him in another year or so; but Felix is a good-hearted fellow, and really cares a heap for his guardian.”

Meanwhile, Bud Morgan was working with all his might, trying to locate and cure the engine trouble. Bud was a very determined fellow, as his chums had learned many a time in the past. Once he set his mind on accomplishing anything he would persist everlastingly at the job, even when it seemed next door to hopeless.

“I’m beginning to get on to it, boys, I want to tell you,” he finally said, as he crawled out from under the car so as to stretch his cramped limbs, and wipe the perspiration from his forehead with a bandanna that had once upon a time been a beautiful red, but was now sadly faded.

“But almost two hours have slipped by since our plug engine balked on us,” complained Blake Merton, painfully. “Not that I’m trying to rub it into you fellows, because both of you are doing the work, while a greenhorn like me has to sit around and grunt, and count the minutes. If only some other motorist would come along about now maybe he might be able to lend us a hand.”

“Wish to gracious one would show up,” sighed Bud. “What a fellow doesn’t know about pesky engines like this would fill a book. Another pilot might just happen to be familiar with this particular kind of trouble. ‘Many men, many minds,’ you remember. But don’t think I’m going to give it up. There’s a little of the old U. S. Grant about me, and I purpose ‘fighting it out on this line if it takes all summer.’”

“That’s a bully way of looking at it, Bud, and I give you lots of credit,” said Blake, shrugging his shoulders. “If we stick here until tomorrow I might just as well head back toward Oakvale, for all the good a visit to camp will do me.”

“Listen!” warned Hugh, holding up a finger.

“Ginger! some one coming, as sure as anything!” ejaculated Bud, looking inexpressibly relieved.

The plain sound of an approaching car could now be heard. It was also coming from the same direction as their course had just covered, that is, from distant Oakvale.

“I can see him starting to take the hill,” announced Blake, eagerly, “and, say, if it is only a flivver, it tackles the rise as if no ascent had any terrors for it. One man is in the little car, but, then, he may be an angel in disguise. I hope so, I certainly do.”

So the trio of anxious scouts waited for the coming of the lone motorist whose small car was already courageously mounting the elevation.

CHAPTER III
RISING SUSPICIONS

The oncoming car soon reached the spot where Hugh, Bud and Blake were stalled. Hugh threw up his arm as a signal that they would be greatly obliged to the party in the lone machine if he would stop for a brief time to hear their tale of woe, and either assist them, or at least give advice.

The occupant of the little car was a dark-faced man of middle age with what seemed to be a perpetual smile on his face, or was it a leer? Hugh did not like his looks any too well, he confessed to himself. When motorists are in trouble they have no business to find any fault with the looks of a possible Moses who might lead them out of the wilderness. Whether he is handsome or homely, pleasant-looking or a sour-visaged man matters little if only he is accommodating.

“We’re in a mess, it happens, sir,” Hugh commenced saying.

“So I see,” sneered the man, looking suggestively at Bud’s grimy hands, and then toward the stalled ramshackle car.

“Our knowledge of mechanics isn’t all it should be,” continued Hugh, determined not to be daunted by this poor beginning, “and if you could spare five minutes to take a look at the cause of our trouble, perhaps you might tell us how to remedy the same. I’m sure we’d feel under heavy obligations, sir.”

“We certainly would,” added Blake; “it’s of prime importance that we get along just now, because we’re heading for the mobilization camp, on an important errand, sir. Please oblige us, won’t you?”

He tried