the ruts and dust flurries of a macadam road. The driver was putting on storm curtains. “Rain coming, Sam?” Babbing asked, as he passed Barney into the tonneau.
“Sure ’s you live, Chief,” the driver answered, busily.
“Good! That ’ll help,” Babbing said.
His operative followed him in. The driver fastened down the curtains. Babbing drew out a little electric pocket-lamp and flashed it on Barney’s suit-case. “Get into your old clothes,” he ordered the boy. “We ’ll sit here.”
He gave Barney the big rear seat, with his suit-case. “Let me see your road map,” he said to his operative. “This is Barney Cook. We want to get as near as we can to the Langton bungalow—without leaving the main road—and then drop him out, to do the roping. I ’ll stay in Careyville with you. He ’s to give us the signal as soon as he locates young Whately. Give me the lay of the land, will you? There ’s the rain.”
