nsive, and that others
before them have found the sand a tribulation.

"Oh, this is the worst of all!" groans Corny.

"But we'll not give up, nevertheless," declares little Arno Cummings,
developing unexpected grit in the emergency. "I shouldn't like to tell
them at Curtin Harbor that we had to take to the cars to get around a
difficulty."

Joe mops the perspiration from his dusky brow, and then stops to listen.
A creak, a rumble, and a tramp, tramp are heard behind them. "Dar's
sumfin a-comin!" says Joe.

The "sumfin" soon appears in sight,--a big, empty, four-horse wagon,
making its unwieldy way in their direction. The same idea occurs to
everybody at once.

"There! He'll carry us!"

[Illustration: WITH JOE IN ADVANCE, THE CLUB RIDES THROUGH WAREHAM.]

Carry them! Of course he will--for a consideration. And almost before
the driver has recovered from his evident astonishment at this vision of
six tricycles in the heart of the Sandwich woods, the riders and their
machines are safely in the big cart, and on their way through the sandy
tract, which, they now learn, is several miles in extent.

It is impossible for the horses to go faster than a walk for the whole
distance. The sand is a constant clog, and scarcely a breath of air can
penetrate the close piny ranks on either side the narrow road. It is a
slow and somewhat crowded ride, but the club tells stories, sings and
jokes and answers the curious inquiries of their teamster, to whom a
tricycle is a thing unknown till now. But in due time, the young folk
have bidden him good day, and are speeding on toward Barnstable. The air
grows salty, strong, and bracing.

"It's like a breath of new life," says Starrett; and soon they are
rolling between the long row of grand old trees that line Barnstable's
quiet main street. At the hotel they stop for dinner and a noonday rest.

It is four in the afternoon when they remount. The lady boarders, who
have taken quite an interest in the young tricyclers, bid them farewell
with all manner of good wishes, and one gray-haired society lady
remarks, "Those girls are sensible; and their mothers are sensible too.
Give young people the delights of nature and the freedom of outdoor
sports, and keep them from late parties, and the whirl of folly and
fashion. I've seen too many young lives warped and twisted and weakened
in the endeavor to 'keep up' in fashionable society. Yes, those girls
are sensible."

And, wheeling still, by