stores. As they came in sight of the place Phil uttered a cry:
"There is that racing car now!"
Phil was right, the car stood in front of the tavern, the engine still running and letting out short puffs of smoke.
"Where are the fellows who were in it?" questioned Sam.
"Must have gone inside for a drink," answered Ben.
"Here come two of them now," said Roger, in a low voice, as the tavern door swung open and two young men appeared, each wearing a linen duster and a touring cap.
"It's Nat Poole!" cried Jessie.
"I know that driver," said Dave. "He is Pete Barnaby, a sport from Lumberdale. He used to follow the horse races before autoing became popular. He once tried to sell Caspar Potts a horse, but we found out the animal was doctored up and worthless, and we didn't take him. Barnaby was furious when the deal fell through."
"I've heard of him," said Ben. "He wanted to sell my father a horse, but father wouldn't have anything to do with him."
While the boys were talking the tavern door had swung open again, and now two other persons stepped forth. They, too, wore linen dusters and
