Secrets of the Andes. Foster James H.

explained Bob.

      There was a glint of interest in young Spike’s eyes. He had absorbed this definition eagerly.

      “Does he shoot with a big rifle, and camp out?” Spike demanded.

      “That’s exactly what he does,” Bob replied. “And he usually has plenty of adventures, too.”

      “Boy! That sounds swell! Wonder what it feels like to fire one of them guns.”

      “Feels all right after you get used to it,” Joe said.

      “How do you know?” Spike asked, as though he felt that Joe was talking of something that he knew nothing about.

      “My friend has fired them,” explained Bob. “And so have I.”

      At once the lad was all excitement.

      “You’ve really hunted wild animals? Tell me about it.”

      During the next hour Bob and Joe related some of their experiences in Brazil and North Africa, while their newly made young friend listened breathlessly. By the expressions on his face they knew that he was absorbing every word with interest. When they had finished, his admiration for them was beyond expression.

      “Gee! You two are real naturalists,” he said.

      “Not yet,” corrected Bob, “though we hope to be some day. To be a naturalist you must go through college and get your lessons every day. But it isn’t hard if you want to like it.”

      For a time young Spike seemed lost in thought. Finally he roused himself and turned to his friends.

      “I’m goin’ home and go to school, so I can be a naturalist,” he said conclusively. “And then maybe I can have a lot of fun huntin’ and campin’, like you fellows do. I always did want to do that.”

      Bob and Joe glanced at each other. Did this lad’s decision mean anything, or was it merely a childish notion? At least they had induced him to attend school temporarily.

      Joe started to speak, but Spike silenced him.

      “Look!” he cried. “We’re comin’ to a stop. This must be a town.”

      The boy was right. The train was gradually slowing up at a spot where the track had branched into several switches. At last it came to a full stop.

      “Now’s our chance to get off,” declared Joe. “We – ”

      “Keep still,” hissed Bob. “Somebody’s coming down the track. It may be a railroad policeman, or ‘bull,’ as the hoboes call them.”

      “Let’s hide behind these boxes,” suggested Joe. “He may be coming in here.”

      Quickly, yet quietly, the three concealed themselves in a corner of the box car. Then they waited.

      The sound of someone walking grew louder, and the next moment a man stopped at the side of the box car. There was the sound of a door rolling forward, and then the click of a chain. Less than a minute later he was on his way up the tracks.

      Hastily the hideaways slipped out from behind the boxes and into the center of the car.

      Bob uttered an exclamation of dismay.

      “That fellow locked the door!” he cried. “We’re trapped!”

      CHAPTER III

      Helplessly Trapped

      SPIKE uttered a cry of fright, while Joe dashed forward to make sure that his friend was right.

      As Bob had said, the railroad man had fastened the door securely. There was an opening of about eight inches, across which was a heavy chain that terminated at a large lock. In order to cut the chain, a file would be necessary.

      Of the three prisoners, Spike was the first to resume his natural attitude. Perhaps this was due to his wide experience in riding freight trains. At any rate he seemed to forget his plight and resign himself over to any fate.

      “Tough luck!” the lad said. “Guess you guys will have to ride with me to Chicago. May be several days before we can get anything to eat, too.”

      “That’s the worst part about it,” lamented Bob. “It may be days, or even weeks, before we’ll reach our destination.”

      Bob and Joe were inclined to be downhearted, but their young friend was cheerful.

      “Don’t you worry,” he consoled them. “I’ve been in tight fixes like this many a time, and I’ve always got out all right. One time I went out West and got locked in just like we are now.”

      Young Spike sounded like an experienced vagabond, and the youths could not help laughing.

      “How did you get out?” asked Joe, after the laugh had subsided.

      “It was easy. When we stopped at a town I just waited for some hobo to come along. Somehow he got ahold of a file and had me out in a jiffy. Hoboes are good to do anything like that for you.”

      “Let’s hope history will repeat itself,” muttered Bob, who, along with Joe, did not like the prospects of a trip to Chicago.

      Less than ten minutes later there was a slight jar, and the train started moving. Although pulled by a large engine, there was little chance of high speed, for a line of cars over a half-mile long stretched far down the track.

      Bob, Joe, and Spike crowded before the crack to catch a glimpse of the town at which they had stopped. But aside from a number of freight cars and old buildings, there was little to be seen.

      “Suppose we arrange boxes in front of what little opening there is,” suggested Joe. “We may as well amuse ourselves by looking out.”

      “That reminds me,” burst out Spike. “I want to see if anything in this car has stuff to eat in it.”

      He at once began a search of the many boxes, bales, and crates that were packed in each end of the car. Suddenly he gave a cry of delight.

      “Here’s apples!” he cried excitedly. “Gee whiz! Who says we don’t eat?”

      But the fruit was in tightly nailed crates, which could not be easily opened.

      “Come here, fellows!” shouted Spike. “Give me a hand! You don’t expect me to open ’em when there’s big guys like you around, do you?”

      “Wait a minute!” commanded Bob. “Whose apples are they?”

      “Whose are they? I don’t know. Why?”

      “Do you think it’s right to get in a box car and eat up somebody’s apples?”

      “Ah, gee whiz! You ain’t gonna back out of a chance like this, are you? Come on. Be a sport.”

      Bob stoutly refused.

      “We’re not going to open any boxes or crates around here, and you’re not either! Get that and get it straight! Of course if we have to, to keep from starving, we will. But not now.”

      Against this stout protest there was no use persisting, and Spike finally walked sullenly back to his seat before the slightly open door.

      “You guys sure are the berries,” he said with an ironic smile. “You’ll never get anywhere that way.”

      “That’s where you’re wrong,” Joe corrected him. “We will and you won’t, unless you get such notions out of your head.”

      “Ah, blooey!”

      A half-hour of silence followed, during which time the three gazed absently out, watching the farms, the forests, the rivers and creeks slip by. They were beginning to enter the Appalachian Mountains, and more of natural beauty promised to be visible.

      But Bob and Joe did not care to observe the beauties of nature just then. Their thoughts were dwelling on the probabilities of the future. What lay in store for them? Would they be able to get home in time to accompany their fathers to the Andes Mountains, or would fate rule that they remain for an indefinite period in this box car? If the truth were known, the youths were