The chauffeur, believing that the boys were laughing at him because he could not get past, became purple with anger. He sounded the horn again and again, and finally, when Lem Billers obstinately refused to pay any attention, he looked wildly about for a policeman.
As luck would have it, Constable Con Riley was ambling along Main Street at that moment, wondering if it would soon be supper time and hoping his wife would serve corned beef and cabbage that evening. He was aroused from his trance by the chauffeur, who brought the sedan to a stop and ran over to him.
“Officer—arrest that man!” roared the chauffeur, pointing to Lem Billers.
“What for?” demanded Con, taking off his helmet and scratching his head.
“Obstructing the traffic. He won’t let me pass. I’ve been sounding my horn for the last five minutes, and he won’t let me go past.”
“Oh, ho!” said Constable Riley. “He can’t get away with that. Not while Con Riley’s on the beat.” And with that he ran out into the road, shouting to Lem Billers to stop.
At the constable’s command, the farmer halted his team and gazed in amazement at the chauffeur and the officer as they came running up to him.
“Why won’t you let him pass?” demanded the constable.
“Don’t say you didn’t hear me?” roared the chauffeur. “I sounded my horn fifty times.”
“Sure, I heard a horn,” admitted Billers. “But,” he added triumphantly, “I didn’t see no car.”
“Are you blind?” asked Riley. “There’s the car.”
Lem Billers looked behind. At sight of the sedan, his jaw dropped.
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he declared sadly. “It must be my eyes is goin’ back on me. Not my ears. I looked behind three times and I couldn’t see no car.”
“Don’t believe him, officer,” said the chauffeur. “He didn’t even turn around.”
“I did so!” contended Mr. Billers.
“Then why didn’t you let me pass?”
“You didn’t have no car. I heard a horn but I didn’t see no car.”
Thereupon the argument grew fast and furious. Constable Riley was vastly puzzled. He didn’t know what to make of it. Both the chauffeur and Lem Billers appeared to be telling the truth, yet there was something wrong somewhere. He took it all down in a notebook, while Mr. Billers and the chauffeur grew angrier and angrier at each other until finally they were on the point of settling the matter with their fists.
In the meantime there was a steadily lengthening line of cars and wagons blocking the street, unable to get past because of the hay wagon and the sedan. A constant chorus of automobile horns sounded. Angry drivers roared at the officer to clear the road.
Constable Riley threw up his hands in disgust.
“Get on your way, both of you,” he commanded. “I can’t stand here arguin’ all afternoon.”
And while Lem Billers, wondering whether his eyes or his ears had deceived him, drew his horses to the side of the road and muttered strong threats of vengeance against the chauffeur, the traffic tangle gradually abated. When he finally resumed his journey, the Hardy boys could see Chet Morton lying limply in the back of the wagon with tears of laughter running down his face. As for Frank and Joe, they laughed all the way home and during supper that evening their spasmodic outbursts of chuckles puzzled their parents extremely.
VI
Tire Tracks
Next day was Saturday, and immediately after breakfast the Hardy boys asked their mother to make up a lunch for them, as they intended to spend the day in the woods with a number of their school chums.
Mrs. Hardy quickly made up a generous package of sandwiches, not forgetting to slip in several big slices of the boys’ favorite cake, and the lads started out in the bright morning sunshine, with the whole holiday before them.
They met the other boys, half a dozen in all, on the road at the outskirts of the town and so, whistling and chattering and telling jokes, the group trudged along the dusty highway. Once in a while they would explore along the fences for berry bushes, and occasionally a friendly scuffle would start, to end with both laughing contestants covered with dust.
When they reached the crossroads Chet had not yet appeared, so they rested in the shade of the trees until at length the chubby youth came panting along the road, his lunch under his arm.
“If I only had my roadster I wouldn’t be late,” he said, as he came up to them. “I’ve been so used to it that I’ve forgotten how long it takes to walk this far.”
“Well, are we all set?” asked Frank.
“Everybody’s here. Where are we going?”
“What do you say to Willow Grove?”
“All those in favor say ‘Aye,’ ” demanded Chet, and there was a chorus of “Aye” from the crowd.
“It’s unanimous,” Chet decided. “Willow Grove it shall be. Let’s go.”
Willow Grove was about a mile farther on. It was some distance in from the road, and was on the banks of Willow River, from which it got its name. It was an ideal place for a picnic, and as it was somewhat early in the season it was hardly likely that other parties from the city would be in the grove that day.
Frank told the other boys about Chet’s adventure with the auto horn and the story was greeted with shouts of laughter, which were redoubled when Chet told how he had later jumped down from the wagon and run along behind, shouting to Lem Billers to give him a ride.
“It was a shame!” he confessed. “The poor old chap reined in his horses and made me come up and sit on the seat beside him. He asked me if I had walked very far and then he told me all about his argument with the policeman and the chauffeur. I could hardly keep my face straight.”
When the boys reached the lane that led in toward Willow Grove from the main road they broke into a run and raced into the
