t?"

"I guess that's what is the matter with me," Morgan confessed. "I'm
bothering my head about that fellow Blake."

"Me, too. Say! let's run over there."

"To Elmvale?"

"Yep. Pa's gone away----"

"So has my father," admitted Whistler.

"Well, neither of them can advise us, then," said Torry, practically.
"How about talking with somebody in Elmvale? The manager of the munition
works, for instance?"

"That's so! Mr. Santley. Say! let's 'phone him and see if he is at
home."

"But you can't say anything over the telephone about Blake, or about us
fellows thinking he is up to something wrong."

"We'll make an appointment with the manager," said Whistler, running
into the Torrance house.

He knew where the telephone was, the girl at central quickly gave him
the connection. A man answered the call.

"Is this Mr. Santley?" Whistler asked.

"It is. Who are you?"

Morgan told him who he was and asked if he could see the manager if he
drove right over to Elmvale in his friend's car.

"What for?"

"It has something to do with a man named Blake in the employ of the
factory," said Whistler plainly. "But I can say nothing more about it
over the 'phone."

"'Blake'?" repeated the voice at the other end, and Whistler thought
there was a startled note in it. "What about him?"

"I can only tell you when I see you."

"Come on, then!" exclaimed the man. "I shall wait here for you at my
office."

Whistler ran out of the house. Al was already at the steering wheel of
the car.

"What did he say?" he shouted.

"For us to come over," Whistler replied. "And somehow, Torry, I feel we
ought to hurry."

"You said it!" agreed the other and turned on the power.

CHAPTER IX

JUST TOO LATE

"Shall we stop and pick up the other fellows?" demanded Al as the heavy
car shot up the road toward High Street. They had to cross the railroad
tracks to get into the Elmvale road.

"Stop for nothing!" exclaimed Phil Morgan. "I feel that we can't delay a
minute."

But as it chanced Michael Donahue was standing at the open door of the
Rosenmeyer delicatessen shop as the Torrance car wheeled around the
corner into Seacove's main street. Dusky as it now was, the Irish lad
recognized the car and the two boys on the front seat.

"Hi, Ikey!" he yelled to his chum, back in the store. "See who's
joy-riding! And they never said a word about it."

Ikey ran out in a hurry.

"Stingy! Stingy!" he cried, almost getting into the