"The regular evening seance is about to begin," announced Billy,
with a grimace, as he turned toward the office.
"Bring the cub, Forrest, along!" shouted the manager.
"Who?" called Conley.
"Forrest and that fool friend of his."
"He means Spotted Horse," suggested Rosie. "Run along,
Spotted Horse. Got your war paint on?"
"I always have my war paint on," grinned Teddy, as he started
toward the private office, following Conley and Phil Forrest.
The three ranged up before the car manager, who surveyed them
with glowering face.
"What have you done today?" he demanded, fixing his gaze
on Billy.
"We got up more than four hundred sheets of paper."
"Four hundred sheets!" groaned Snowden. "What have you fellows
been doing? Sleeping by the roadside?"
"No, sir, we have been working, and Mr. Forrest here pulled off
one of the cleverest hits that's ever been made. He plastered
a silo that stands out like a sore thumb on the landscape, and
which every farmer within ten or twenty miles about will go to
look at."
"Humph, I don't believe it! What have the other men done?"
Conley reported as to the number of sheets that the men had
posted, whereat the manager rose, pounded his desk and, in a
towering rage, expressed his opinion of the tribe of
billposters again.
Billy smiled sarcastically, in which he was joined by Teddy,
but Phil's face was solemn.
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