Secrets of the Andes. Foster James H.

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      Bob grunted.

      “We’re booked for a ride, I guess,” he said. “Still there may be a chance of getting off at some town not far from here.”

      “That’s what we’ll hope for,” the other youth said, nodding. He turned to the lad. “Can you find your way home after you reach Chicago?”

      “Sure. This ain’t the first time I’ve run away. Gettin’ back ain’t what worries me.”

      “What does?” inquired Joe.

      “My old man. He’ll be mad enough to bite nails. Bet he’s got the razor strop hangin’ up now waitin’ for me.”

      Bob and Joe smiled. The personality of this waif touched them.

      “Bob Holton is my name, and this is my friend, Joe Lewis.”

      A small hand was extended.

      “I’m Spike Weaver, the son of a horse thief.”

      The youths burst out in laughter.

      “A horse thief?”

      “Yes,” the boy said. “That’s what the old man used to be. I’m not onto him now, I been away from home so much.”

      Another outburst of laughter followed. The youths were beginning to take a liking to this small wanderer.

      One thing stood out in the young men’s minds: the family to which this boy belonged was evidently of a very low type morally. Little wonder that young Spike had turned out to be a worthless ne’er-do-well. There was apparently little hope for his future.

      “Why don’t you go to school and try to make something out of yourself?” asked Bob. “Wouldn’t you like to be a big business man, or doctor, or merchant, or naturalist?”

      “What’s that?” the lad asked.

      “A naturalist is a scientist who travels to little-known places to collect wild animals for a museum or college,” explained Bob.

      There was a glint of interest in young Spike’s eyes. He had absorbed this definition eagerly.

      “Does he shoot with a big rifle, and camp out?” Spike demanded.

      “That’s exactly what he does,” Bob replied. “And he usually has plenty of adventures, too.”

      “Boy! That sounds swell! Wonder what it feels like to fire one of them guns.”

      “Feels all right after you get used to it,” Joe said.

      “How do you know?” Spike asked, as though he felt that Joe was talking of something that he knew nothing about.

      “My friend has fired them,” explained Bob. “And so have I.”

      At once the lad was all excitement.

      “You’ve really hunted wild animals? Tell me about it.”

      During the next hour Bob and Joe related some of their experiences in Brazil and North Africa, while their newly made young friend listened breathlessly. By the expressions on his face they knew that he was absorbing every word with interest. When they had finished, his admiration for them was beyond expression.

      “Gee! You two are real naturalists,” he said.

      “Not yet,” corrected Bob, “though we hope to be some day. To be a naturalist you must go through college and get your lessons every day. But it isn’t hard if you want to like it.”

      For a time young Spike seemed lost in thought. Finally he roused himself and turned to his friends.

      “I’m goin’ home and go to school, so I can be a naturalist,” he said conclusively. “And then maybe I can have a lot of fun huntin’ and campin’, like you fellows do. I always did want to do that.”

      Bob and Joe glanced at each other. Did this lad’s decision mean anything, or was it merely a childish notion? At least they had induced him to attend school temporarily.

      Joe started to speak, but Spike silenced him.

      “Look!” he cried. “We’re comin’ to a stop. This must be a town.”

      The boy was right. The train was gradually slowing up at a spot where the track had branched into several switches. At last it came to a full stop.

      “Now’s our chance to get off,” declared Joe. “We – ”

      “Keep still,” hissed Bob. “Somebody’s coming down the track. It may be a railroad policeman, or ‘bull,’ as the hoboes call them.”

      “Let’s hide behind these boxes,” suggested Joe. “He may be coming in here.”

      Quickly, yet quietly, the three concealed themselves in a corner of the box car. Then they waited.

      The sound of someone walking grew louder, and the next moment a man stopped at the side of the box car. There was the sound of a door rolling forward, and then the click of a chain. Less than a minute later he was on his way up the tracks.

      Hastily the hideaways slipped out from behind the boxes and into the center of the car.

      Bob uttered an exclamation of dismay.

      “That fellow locked the door!” he cried. “We’re trapped!”

      CHAPTER III

      Helplessly Trapped

      SPIKE uttered a cry of fright, while Joe dashed forward to make sure that his friend was right.

      As Bob had said, the railroad man had fastened the door securely. There was an opening of about eight inches, across which was a heavy chain that terminated at a large lock. In order to cut the chain, a file would be necessary.

      Of the three prisoners, Spike was the first to resume his natural attitude. Perhaps this was due to his wide experience in riding freight trains. At any rate he seemed to forget his plight and resign himself over to any fate.

      “Tough luck!” the lad said. “Guess you guys will have to ride with me to Chicago. May be several days before we can get anything to eat, too.”

      “That’s the worst part about it,” lamented Bob. “It may be days, or even weeks, before we’ll reach our destination.”

      Bob and Joe were inclined to be downhearted, but their young friend was cheerful.

      “Don’t you worry,” he consoled them. “I’ve been in tight fixes like this many a time, and I’ve always got out all right. One time I went out West and got locked in just like we are now.”

      Young Spike sounded like an experienced vagabond, and the youths could not help laughing.

      “How did you get out?” asked Joe, after the laugh had subsided.

      “It was easy. When we stopped at a town I just waited for some hobo to come along. Somehow СКАЧАТЬ