CHAPTER XIIAN AMAZING STATEMENT
“Shake!” spoke bluff Hank Strapp,—then, quite as expansively—“and shake again!”
It was the lad who had saved the Standard from destruction to whom the genial Westerner spoke. The hero of the hour had been taken in tow by Pep from the moment that the latter was assured that the photo playhouse was safe. Randy had seen to the closing up of the place. Then he had become second pilot in the march to the hotel.
The honest-faced, wonder-eyed youth whom they ushered impetuously in upon Mr. Strapp had not resisted their urging. Perhaps he had not possessed much power of resistance after his fire-fighting experience.
“You’re sort of drifting me along; aren’t you?” he had observed, with a quaint smile. “I don’t know where; but if you’re friends of Frank Durham, and I guess you are, it’s all right.”
Pep’s mind was in a turmoil over this repetition of the name of the young movies leader. The strange boy seemed to know no other. To him it appeared to be one to conjure by. Pep was devoured with curiosity as to how this poorly dressed refugee, working at odd jobs and sleeping in a garage, could know Frank.
Unceremoniously the chums ushered their companion into the presence of Mr. Strapp at the hotel. The Westerner stared hard at Pep, whose attire was disordered, and then at the strange lad, who resembled a half-drowned rat.
“Well, what’s all this?” he demanded, and Pep burst out in a breezy account of what had happened at the Standard. It was then that the impulsive ex-ranchman sprang to his feet, seized the hand of the visitor and gave it a grasp that made the latter wince, accompanying the welcome with the hearty words: “Shake—and shake again!”
“You sit down,” said Randy, urging their guest to the softest chair in the room. “Mr. Strapp, he’s dead beat after that bout, I guess, and he’s soaked through. Look at that hand—all blistered, too. If you’ll tell me where your baggage is, I’ll go and bring you a change.”
The stranger startled his auditors with a laugh that made the echoes ring.
“Baggage?” he repeated, and he chuckled. “Change? Why, I never had more than one suit of clothes in my life, and that a poor one. I only brought a couple of shirts and some handkerchiefs with me to Boston, and they’re burned up in the fire.”
“Here, Randy!” broke in Mr. Strapp—taking some money from his pocket. “You take this young friend of ours in hand. Mend him up, dress him up and bring him back here. I want to get better acquainted with you, young man. Let me see—what’s your name?”
“Vic Belton,” was the prompt reply. “I come from Home Farm. That was where I met Frank Durham. And Professor Barrington. It was when the train was wrecked——”
“Why, I know—I remember!” cried Pep. “Frank told us about that. You’re the boy who wanted to join the movies.”
“Yes,” nodded Vic gravely, “I’m here to break into the show business.”
Randy and Pep took the young fellow in charge, and at the end of an hour they reappeared before Mr. Strapp. The latter stared hard, for a transformation had indeed taken place. Attired in a neat suit, brushed up and cleaned up, Vic Belton appeared like quite anotherperson. The expression of Mr. Strapp’s face showed how greatly he was pleased.
“After supper you’ll tell us something; eh, Vic Belton?” he remarked, and he linked the arm of their young guest into his own as they proceeded to the dining room of the hotel.
Vic was a puzzle to Pep. The boy simply followed where he was led, seeming to have sublime confidence in his new friends. He made no demur nor resistance to their guidance. In a pleased way he put himself completely in their hands. It was after he had dispatched what was probably the first hotel meal he had ever sat down to, that he made the observation:
“I don’t know what I’ve fallen into; but you’re treating me fine.”
“There was no insurance on the Standard,” remarked Mr. Strapp, pointedly. “I reckon we’re going to adopt you, son.”
“Well, I need it,” remarked Vic, so artlessly that Pep had to laugh. “No folks, no home—I’d be glad.”
They all had to smile. It was plain to be seen that the boy was without guile.
“You see,” he continued, “when Frank Durham saw me down at the farm I told him how I was sort of born to the show business and wanted to break into it. He gave me his NewYork address; but advised me to stick to the farm.”
“Which in a general way is good advice; don’t you think, Vic?” asked Mr. Strapp.
“Not when a fellow hates farming and hears the call of the show business,” dissented Vic, in his plain, matter-of-fact way. “These two best fellows in the world and Durham himself branched out; didn’t they? Then why not me?”
“That’s so,” agreed Pep. “There’s an argument for you, Mr. Strapp.”
“Well, something came up and I wrote to the Empire in New York City,” went on Vic, “and whoever got the letter wrote back that Mr. Durham was in Boston, at the Parker House. Then I came here, day before yesterday. They told me at the hotel that he had moved here. The clerk here said he was in New York. I found out he was going to run the Standard, so I hung around there a bit. Then the man running the garage gave me a job. I took it until Mr. Durham got back, to take me into his show.”
“Oh, you think he will do that; do you?” grinned Pep, carried off his feet by the amazing confidence this odd boy had in his friends and prospects.
“Yes, I know he will,” declared Vic, with assurance. “You see, when he talked to me I wasonly a poor farm boy, anxious to get away from haymows and turnips. Then something came along—something amazing.”
“Is that so?” inquired Pep, his curiosity aroused.
“Oh, yes. You see, when I talked to Mr. Durham I had nothing—no money, no property, no prospects.”
“And it’s different now; is it?” questioned Pep, wondering what was coming next.
“I should say so!” exclaimed Vic. “I don’t come to Mr. Durham now, though, asking him to pull me along like a helpless raw recruit. No, sir. I can help him, I can.”
“Well, well, here’s an original one,” murmured the amused Westerner.
Randy puckered his lips. Pep grew big-eyed at viewing the boy who slept in a shed yet talked with the confidence of a millionaire.
“How do you mean help him, Vic?” inquired Mr. Strapp.
“Well, I can lend him some money—put in some capital, I suppose you call it. Say, you’re laughing,” Vic interrupted himself to say, but solemn as a judge. “That’s all right. I know it must seem funny to you to hear this kind of talk, when I haven’t got enough in real cash to buy a meal. But I never tell a lie. I’ve gotsome capital—quite a heap of it. It’s in property—not money; but it can soon be changed into money.”
“How much, now?” insinuated the interested ex-ranchman.
“Well, maybe several thousand dollars.”
“Whew!” ejaculated Pep. “That’s a pile for a boy.”
“Yes, sir,” went on Vic, earnestly, “it is for a fact. When I first found it out I was stunned. But, I’ve got it. It’s too big, that property, to carry around with me; but it’s mine, just the same. It’s value. It can be sold.”
“Say, what is this property of yours?” fairly exploded Pep, consumed with curiosity.
“Four camels,” replied Vic Belton, calmly.