les, did
not seem to notice but it was meat and drink to Frank.

Down by Southerland's drug store they parked the Swallow, locking it
carefully, and walked off, leaving the Swallow literally swallowed up by
a crowd of admiring people. Frank hated to go and when they had wandered
half a block away made an excuse for going back. Bill said he would look
at some sweaters in a sporting goods window until he returned.

Frank found the crowd larger than ever. A policeman had attached himself
to the circle and a couple of old Indians stood looking solemnly down.
Someone was talking and when Frank pressed through the crowd he found a
boy about his own age leaning on the fender and addressing everybody in
general. Frank listened and studied the boy as he did so. He was a slim,
pale chap with a shock of light, wavy hair which was shaved close to his
head everywhere except on top where a thick brush waved. He was
continually smoothing it back or shaking his head to get it out of his
eyes. He seemed to consider it a very fascinating motion. Frank liked
his man-of-the-world air and did not see the grins on the faces of many
of the listeners.

"Rather nice little machine," said the boy. "I wonder who owns it. I
would like to tell him a few things he ought to have changed about it.
Some of the lines are all wrong, and anyone can see the engine couldn't
hold up under any strain. I bet he has trouble with the hills. All the
cars of this make have trouble. His tires are wrong too. He ought to use
a heavier tire if he expects to get any speed out of it. It ought to go
at a pretty good clip if the chap knows how to drive. There is
everything in the driving. I have taken my eight-cylinder at one hundred
and ten miles easily a good many times, but my dad and the chauffeurs
never get over eighty-five out of it."

Frank felt his head swim. Here was talk that _was_ talk! He completely
forgot Bill, looking at sweaters. He edged up to the car and fumbled
under the seat.

"Hello!" said the boy. "This your car?"

"It belongs to another fellow and me," said Frank, unable to keep
himself from establishing some sort of a claim on the Swallow. "Why?"

"Quite a nice little toy," said the boy, nodding condescendingly. "I
never cared much for toys myself but some chaps like 'em. I have an
eight-cylinder machine and a six-cylinder runabout, and that's enough to
keep me going for the present. I want a racing car built for me pretty
soon."

"You don