CHAPTER XIII

THE SHIPS OF THE DESERT

Pep Smith had never before seen a boy who owned camels. It was such a big thought that he was at a loss what to say. He stared at the extraordinary youth before him.

“Yes, I own four camels,” repeated Vic Belton, as evenly as if he had said that he owned a pocketknife.

“It sounds like a fairy story,” said Randy Powell as he glanced quickly at Mr. Strapp to see how he took it. The Westerner sat with his eyes fixed on Vic. He was studying him curiously. However, he made no comment.

“What kind of camels?” suddenly burst out Pep. “Real camels--live ones?”

“Awfully alive,” replied Vic, promptly. “Guess you’d think so if you knew some of their doings when they get on a rampage.”

“Where are these animals you speak of?” asked Mr. Strapp.

“Either at Wardham, a little town in Connecticut, or on their way there.”

“How?” inquired Pep.

“On a train, of course,” was the reply; “for they came clear from the Pacific Coast. You see, it’s this way: My dead father was a circus man. So was my uncle. It was Uncle Gregory who put me in charge of Mr. Dorsett at Home Farm. He’s sort of looked after me for the last two years. Well, just a week ago I got a letter I didn’t expect. It was from Bill Purvis.”

“Who’s Bill Purvis?” queried Pep, almost breathlessly, so immersed was he in the outcome of Vic’s narrative.

“Bill is an old menagerie roustabout,” explained Vic. “He used to be with my father. Afterwards he was Uncle Gregory’s handy man. No one could ever keep Bill straight except those two. Well, Bill had got someone to write me the letter I’m telling you about, for he can’t write himself. The letter told me that Uncle Gregory was dead and buried and the show he was with had broken up. They divided the animals and their traps among the people they owed for salaries. Besides that, my uncle had a lot of money invested, so he got the camels for his share.”

“And you say that this uncle of yours is dead now?” inquired Mr. Strapp.

“Yes, sir,” replied Vic. “He died right after he got the camels. It seems he had told Bill just what to do before he died. It was to take them East, as there wasn’t any market for camels on the Coast. Maybe there isn’t any here--I don’t know, and Bill didn’t know. He wrote me, though, that he had raised enough money to pay for the transportation of the camels to Wardham. He wrote, too, that a few miles from there a distant relative of his, named Wright, had a farm. His idea was to stake the camels there until he could look around and take his time finding a good place to keep them.”

“Has he got there with the camels yet?” asked Randy.

“I think he has. I was to join him there, but I had a row getting away from Mr. Dorsett at Home Farm. He said that my uncle owed him some money for my education. Humph! I never got any at that dead old place. I had no money and Wardham was a long way off. So I tramped it to Boston after I found that Frank Durham was here.

“You see, Frank Durham is mighty smart. I know he feels friendly towards me and I was going to ask him to stake me to go down and join Bill Purvis. Then I wanted Mr. Durham to help me sell the camels. Then I was going to buy into your show here--see?”

The earnestness of the speaker made Mr. Strapp smile. Then, too, a pleased expression crossed his bronzed face. The ex-ranchman was fond of boys and the sincerity of Vic appealed to his rugged nature.

“See here, Vic,” he said, “you tell a clear story and I can see you are straight. Besides that, we owe you a lot for this fire business down at the Standard. We can’t do too much for you. I think Durham and the professor will be here to-night; but they may possibly be detained in New York City over to-morrow. So, if you are at all anxious to go to Wardham and see about your camels, you can draw what money you want from me.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” replied Vic; “but I think I’ll wait. You see, I’ve sort of set my mind on seeing Frank Durham and getting his advice. You’re all the finest people I ever ran across; but I know him best. If you’ll take my note against those camels for a dollar or so till I see Mr. Durham, I’ll be obliged to you. I’ll have to hunt up somewhere to sleep to-night, you know, for I’d muss up these nice clothes bunking in at the old garage, even if there’s any place there left to sleep in.”

“Well, you are an original and no mistake!” cried the ex-ranchman, with a laugh. “No, no, my young friend--you can have a hundred dollars if you want it and free gratis for nothing; but we’ll not let a fellow with a ten thousand dollar quartet of camels go bunking around hit or miss. You’ll stay right here with the rest of us. And if I don’t miss my guess Durham will find a place to work you into at the Standard.”

Mr. Strapp proceeded to lay down the law, as he called it, in his pleasant way. Vic was to stay at the hotel. He suggested to Pep that he take the boy in tow and show him something of the town.

“I’d like to do that,” said Vic. “I’ve never seen but two moving picture shows. I’d like to see some more.”

“You come with me, then,” suggested Pep, and he beckoned to Randy to join them. The boys put on their caps and started to leave the room. They had just got to the elevator, Pep chattering in his usual way, when the elevator door swung back and Randy uttered a cry:

“It’s Frank--and Professor Barrington!”

“Hello!” exclaimed the former as he recognized Vic, and gazed in some surprise at his natty appearance. “Why, how do you come to be here?”

“You’re glad to see me; aren’t you?” asked Vic wistfully, fixing his appealing eyes on Frank.

“So glad,” replied the young leader of the motion picture chums, with a hearty handshake, “that I want to know right away all about you. Professor Barrington, you remember our young friend of the railroad smash-up?”

“H’m--surely,” nodded the professor, after an inspection of Vic. “Looks older; don’t he?”

“That’s because I’ve got a new suit, and it fits, you see,” replied Vic, naively.

“Say,” broke in Pep, as they moved towards their rooms, “Vic saved the Standard from burning up this afternoon.”

“What’s that?” demanded Professor Barrington. Then as Pep related the circumstances of the blaze, the professor moved towards him and placed an affectionate hand upon Vic’s shoulder.

“Excellent--heroic--great boy--grand boy!” he exclaimed. There was a genial greeting from Mr. Strapp when they entered the sitting room of the suite. Vic gently pulled Pep’s arm.

“The movies,” he whispered. “You know we were going to see them.” But Pep was so immersed in the bustle and hubbub of the moment that he was reluctant to leave at once. Then Frank came up to Vic and drew him to one side, questioning him with interest as to what had led to his giving up farm life.

Professor Barrington had but one thought as soon as he had got through answering some questions put by Mr. Strapp.

“My mail,” he said, and Randy noticed that he seemed anxious and nervous as he hastened over to a desk between the windows and picked up a dozen or more letters and telegrams.

“Told them to wire here,” Randy heard him mumble. “No--no--no,” he added as he hurriedly ran over letters evidently of no importance. “Ah, from Halifax. No news--too bad! Magdalen Island--no news. Dear! dear!”

Finally he tore open a third telegraph envelope. Its inclosure fluttered in his fingers. His eyes bored into the contents Then it fell from his nerveless hands. He looked so agitated, and sank back in the chair with such a piteous face, that Randy called out sharply in alarm:

“Frank!”

“Eh?” questioned the young movies leader, and then observing that something was amiss with his old friend he ran up to him.

“Durham--telegram!” muttered the professor in a weak, gasping tone. “From Trinity, Newfoundland.”

“Bad news?” questioned Frank, supporting the professor, who seemed about to faint.

“The worst!” replied Professor Barrington, with a hollow groan. “The schooner Plymouth--”

“Yes! yes!” urged Frank, his own face growing drawn with anxiety.

“The great film--lost! Gone!”