If "on the job" meant "on the car," as at least seems probable, instructions were followed with alacrity. Not even pausing to gather up the evidences of their having stopped for lunch, Billy and Paul hastily packed away bread and butter and similar supplies, then clambered into the tonneau. Phil had hurried to the river's edge where he washed dishes and milk buckets in a shorter space of time than he would ordinarily have considered proper; but the car was chugging away in waiting and he jumped up to the seat beside Dave in an exceedingly spry and nimble manner. "Go ahead," he said, and the Thirty answered gently, smoothly to the clutch. "You left that strawberry basket lying there by the fence and you had scribbled all over it," said Billy Worth to Paul, a half hour later. He was thinking of the possibility of the Chosen Trio coming on behind, perhaps in hot pursuit, yet uncertain of the course, "What did you write on the box?" "Why! Say, that's _so_!" was the answer, with a disconcerted grin, "That's right! I wrote 'P. Jones, Esq.,' for one thing, and 'With kind regards to Lannington.' I drew a picture or two and--Gee! I thought I'd toss the basket into the river! Don't s'pose it will hurt, do you, Bill?" "Guess not. Of course we aren't billing the country as if we were a circus, exactly. At least that wasn't what we set out to do." "Well, what d'ye think of it? I'm frank to say I'm a fine young chimpanzee," Jones muttered, really blaming himself a great deal. "Oh, don't gnash your teeth over it! There's just about one chance in a hundred that Gaines and his crew will ever find which way we came or try now to follow us," said Billy reassuringly. Phil and Dave agreed with Worth as the subject was discussed later, saying there was no probability whatever that Paul's writing would ever come to the Trio's notice. Even if Gaines' Roadster were to pass the identical spot, what likelihood was there that any of the party would notice or give heed to a little, empty strawberry basket? So did Jones quickly recover his wonted joyousness. Blithely he was declaring, "Oh, I guess I'm no wizard! No, no wizard at all. No, not at all!" his customary good opinion of himself quite restored, within a few hours. The sun was low. Camp for the night had been made beside a turbulent little brook where a woodland skirted the highway. Paul had gone to a dwelling some distance to the rear for milk. He returned bringing not only the five quart bucket nearly full, but eggs and a basket of berries, as well. Hence his self-complacency; hence for the third time, his words accompanied by that contagious grin, so peculiarly his own--"Oh, I guess I'm no wizard! Nothing like that at all!" CHAPTER VIII PLANS FOR THE BIG RACE