The Circus Boys on the Plains Part 8

"Sure," replied Teddy.

"You won't be so anxious after you have had a week or so of them."

All hands started for the hotel.

"What about your reports? I thought Mr. Snowden told you to get them in at once," asked Phil after they had left the car.

"Let him wait," growled Billy.

"But he will raise a row when you get back, will he not?"

"He'll roar anyway, so what's the odds? We're used to that."

"A queer business, this advance car work," said Phil thoughtfully. "I never had any idea that it was like this. If ever I own or run a show it will be different--I mean the advance cars will be run on a different principle from this one."

"I hope you do, and that I am working for you," grinned Conley.

"Here we are."

Billy's description of a contract hotel Phil decided had not been overdrawn. All hands filed into the dining room, and Phil had lost most of his appet.i.te before reaching his chair.

A waiter who looked as if he might have been a prizefighter at one time shambled up to them with a soiled napkin thrown over one arm. As it chanced, he approached Teddy first.

"Bean soup! What'll you have," he demanded with a suddenness that startled the Circus Boy.

Teddy surveyed the waiter with large eyes, then permitted his gaze to wander about the table to the faces of the grinning billposters.

"Bean soup. What'll I have?" reflected the lad soberly.

"Now isn't it funny that I can't think what kind of soup I want. Bean soup; what'll I have?"

The waiter s.h.i.+fted his weight to the other foot, flopped the napkin to the other arm and stuck out his chin belligerently.

"Bean soup! What'll you have?" he demanded, with a rising inflection in his voice.

"Let me think. Why, I guess I'll take bean soup if it's all the same to you," decided Tucker, solemn as an owl.

The billposters broke out into a roar of laughter. They fairly howled with delight at Teddy's droll manner, but the Circus Boy did not even smile. He looked at them with a hurt expression in his eyes until the men were on the point of apologizing to him.

They did not know young Tucker.

The rest of the meal pa.s.sed off without incident.

"Well, what did you think of the contract hotel?" questioned Conley, as they were strolling back to the car.

"I think I shall starve to death in a week, if I have to eat in that sort of a place," answered Teddy. "Why didn't the contracting agent sign us up with a livery stable? I'd a sight rather feed there than at a contract hotel if they are all like this."

"Yes, the food is at least clean in a livery stable,"

laughed Phil. "But we shall get along all right. If we get too hungry we can go out and buy our own meals now and then.

Do you ever do that, Mr. Conley?"

"I should say we do. We have to, or we shouldn't have any stomachs left. Now, you want to know something about this car work, don't you?"

"I should like to very much, if you can spare the time to tell me about it."

"Wait till I get my report made out, then we'll have a nice long talk, and I will tell you all about it."

"There is Mr. Snowden waiting for you."

"Never mind him. His bite isn't half so bad as his bark."

The men piled into the car, whereupon Manager Snowden unloosed the vials of his wrath because their reports were not in. To his tirade no one gave the slightest heed. The men went methodically to work, writing out their reports to which they signed their names, folded the papers, and tossed them on the manager's desk without a word of explanation.

For a few moments there was silence in the office while the manager was going over the reports. All at once there was a roar.

"Pig! Come here!"

Rosie got down from the pile of paper on which he had been sitting, taking his time about doing so, and, wearing a broad grin, strolled to the office at the other end of the car.

"What's the trouble now?" demanded Rosie.

"Trouble? Trouble? That's the word. It's trouble all the time.

Where are your brains?"

"In my head, I suppose," grinned Rosie.

"No!" thundered the manager. "They're in your feet. All you know how to do is to kick. You're a woodenhead; you're no good."

Rosie accepted the tirade with a quiet smile.

"If you will tell me what it is all about I may be able to explain."

"Look at those billboard tickets!"

"What's the matter with them?"

"Matter? Matter?"

"Yes, that's what I asked."

"They're torn off crooked."

"Well, what of that?"

"What of that? Why, you woodenhead, when those tickets are presented at the door when the show comes around, the ticket takers won't accept them. Then there will be a howl that you can hear all across the state of Minnesota. How many times have I told you to be careful?"

"The tickets are all right," growled Rosie, now a little nettled.

"What! What! You dare contradict me? I'll fire you Sat.u.r.day night! I'd fire you now only I am short of money.

Get out of here! Come back!"