Curlie Carson Listens In | Page 5

for such a fellow is that he be dropped into the sea
with some means of keeping afloat but with neither food nor drink and
a ship nowhere in sight."
If Curlie had known how exactly this wish was to be granted in the
days that were to come, he might have experienced some strange
sensations.
He straightened up and placed a dot on the map before him.
"That's where he was. I'll motor out in the morning and have a look at
things. May discover some clew."
Curlie was a bright American boy of the very best type. Like most
American boys who do not have riches thrust upon them, when he
wanted a thing he made it or made a way to get it. Three years previous
he had wanted an automobile--wanted it awfully. And his total capital
had been $49.63. He had been wanting that car for some time when an
express train hit a powerful roadster on a crossing near his home.
Having flocked in with the throng to view the twisted remains of the
car, he had been struck with an idea. This idea he had put into action.
The railroad had settled with the owner for the car. They had the wreck
of it on their hands. Curlie bought it for twenty-five dollars.

To his great delight he had found the powerful motor practically
uninjured. The driving gear too, with the exception of one cog wheel,
was in workable order. The remainder of the car he sold to a junk
dealer for five dollars. It was twisted and broken beyond redemption.
He had next searched about for a discarded chassis on which to mount
his gears and motor. This search rewarded, he had proceeded to
assemble his car. And one fine day he sailed out upon the street with
the "Humming Bird," as he had named her.
"Better call her 'Gravel Car,'" Joe had said when he saw that she had no
body at all and that he must ride with his feet thrust straight out before
him in a homemade seat bolted to a buckboard-like platform.
But when, on a level stretch of road, Curlie had "let her out," Joe had at
once acquired an immense respect for the Humming Bird. "For," he
said later, "she can hum and she can go like a streak of light, and that's
about all any humming bird can do."
No further messages of importance having drifted in to him from the
outer air, Curlie, an hour before dinner, made his way down to the
street and, having warmed up the Humming Bird's motor, muttered as
he sprang into the seat: "I'll just run out there and see what I see."
A half hour later, just as the first gray streak of dawn was appearing, he
curved off onto a gravel road. Here he threw his car over to one side
and, switching on a flashlight, steered with one hand while he bent over
the side to examine the left-hand track.
There had been a light rain at ten that night. Since that time a heavy car
with diamond-tread tires had passed along the road, leaving its tracks in
certain soft, sandy spots.
"Maybe that's him," Curlie murmured.
A little farther on, stopping his machine, he got out and walked along
the road. Examining the surface closely, he walked on for five rods,
then wheeled about and made his way back to the car.

"He was over this road three times last night. That looks like a warm
scent. Can't tell, though. My friend might not have been in a car at all;
might have been in a plane.
"We'll have a look at the very spot." He twirled the wheel and was
away.
A half mile farther down the road, he paused to look at a map. "Not
quite here," he murmured. "About a quarter mile farther."
The car crept over another quarter of a mile. When he again came to a
halt he found himself on a stretch of paved road. "This is the spot from
which the last message was sent. Tough luck!" he muttered. "Can't tell
a thing here."
Glancing to his right, he sat up with a start. He had suddenly become
aware of the fact that he was just before the gate of the estate of J.
Anson Ardmore, reputed to be the richest man of the city.
"Huh!" Curlie grunted. "Car must have stood about here when that last
message was sent. Maybe it went up that lane. Maybe it didn't, too. J.
Anson's got a son, about my age I guess. Vincent they call him. He
might be up to something. There's a girl, too, sixteen or so. Can't tell
what these rich folks will do."
He stepped down the rich