he added.

"A rubber-neck wagon!" cried his mother. "Benjamin, what language!"

"Well, that is what they usually call the touring automobiles," he
answered, with a grin.

To some of the folks on the trip, going to bed on a train was much of a
novelty, and they watched with interest while the porters made up the
berths.

"Do you remember the time we had Billy Dill along, and what he thought
of sleeping on a train?" remarked Dave, to Phil and Roger.

"I sure do," answered the shipowner's son, with a chuckle. "When he saw
the seats converted into beds he wanted to know if they didn't have a
ballroom aboard, or a church, or a farm," and at the recollection of the
old tar's questions all in the party had to laugh.

"Where is this Billy Dill now?" asked Shadow.

"Safe in an old sailors' home," answered Dave. "He took a trip or two to
sea, but he couldn't stand it, so we had him put in the home."

"You've got him to thank for a good deal, Dave," remarked the senator's
son, in low tones.

"Yes, and I'll never forget Billy Dill," answered our hero, as he
remembered how the old tar had helped him to find his Uncle Dunston, as
related in detail in "Dave Porter in the South Seas."

Mr. Dunston Porter had found some congenial spirits in the
smoking-compartment of the car and spent a good deal of his time there.
He met a man who had done considerable hunting in the West, and the two
"swapped yarns," as Mr. Porter said afterwards.

Only a short stop was made at Buffalo, just long enough to allow the
boys and some of the men to stretch their legs on the depot platform,
and then the excursion train started on its trip along the shore of Lake
Erie towards the great Windy City, as Chicago is sometimes called.

Morning found the party well on the way to Chicago, and that metropolis
of the Great Lakes was reached about noon. Lunch had already been
served, and at the depot all hands found a string of touring automobiles
awaiting them, to take them around to various points of interest,
including the business section, the finer residential district, and
Lincoln Park, with its Zooelogical Garden. Some of the party went in a
different direction, to visit the Stock Yards, that great place where
hundreds of cattle are slaughtered daily.

"By the great tin dipper!" cried Phil, suddenly, when waiting for the
automobile in which he and some others sat to start off. "Look who's
here!"

"Jim Murphy!" cried Dave and Roger, in a breath.