"I hope it is only warm," replied Dave, as he looked at the sky. "Why, what do you mean, Dave?" asked the shipowner's son, quickly. "I don't much like the looks of the sky off to the southwest. Looks to me as if a storm was coming up." "Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Roger. "We don't want any rain." "So we don't, Roger. But we'll have to take what comes." "Some class to Roger's driving!" cried Phil, as the little touring-car swept along, in the direction of Lake Sargola. "Roger, if you ever want a recommendation as a chauffeur——" "We'll give it to him on gilt-edged paper," finished Dave, with a grin. "But, I say, don't make the turns quite so swift," he added, as they swept around a curve at such speed that he was thrown up against Phil. "Don't get scared—I know this car as well as Mary knew the tail of her lamb," responded the senator's son, gayly. "Why, we are only making thirty-five miles an hour," he added, half reproachfully. On and on they rolled, up hill and down dale, and through several villages. At one spot they went through a flock of chickens, that scattered in all directions. Not one was touched, but an old farmer shook a hay-rake at the boys. "Kill my chickens an' I'll have th' law on ye!" he yelled. "Never came within a mile of 'em!" cried Roger, gayly, and then the car whirled out of hearing. As they passed on, the lads frequently looked at the sky. But the clouds, that had been gathering, appeared to drift away to the northward. "Maybe the storm is going around us," suggested Phil. "I hope so," answered Dave. "I don't like to travel in an auto in wet weather—too much danger of skidding." A little later they came in sight of the lake and the first of the cottages, and then they ran up to one of the big hotels. A young fellow on the veranda waved his hand to them. "There is Bert, now!" cried Roger. And then the young fellow, who had been telephoned to early in the morning, ran down the steps to meet Roger and was speedily introduced to the others.
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