The fathers of Ned Slade and Bob Baker, and the mother of Jerry Hopkins, in consultation one day, decided that the young men were getting a bit too wild and frivolous.
“It is time they settled down,” said their parents, “and began to think of growing up. Let’s send them to college!”
And to the college of Boxwood Hall our heroes were sent. It was a surprise to them, but it turned out to be a delightful surprise, and one of the reasons was that their old friend, Professor Snodgrass, now an enthusiastic collector of butterflies, was an instructor at Boxwood.
Of what took place at the college, of the hazing, the initiation, the queer developments following an automobile rescue, of how the motor boys gradually overcame an unfair prejudice, and how they helped to win a baseball victory--for all this I refer you to the following pages. The titles of the second series will include the names Ned, Bob and Jerry, in various activities, and while they will still use their motors, in auto, boat or airship, those machines will be of secondary consideration.
And with this explanation, and with the hope that you will accord this book the same welcome you have given my other writings, I remain,
“What do you reckon it’s all about, Jerry?”
“Well, Bob, you’re as good a guesser as I am,” came the answer from the young man who was at the wheel of a touring car that was swinging down a pleasant country road, under arching trees. “What do you say it means?”
“I haven’t the least idea, unless it’s some business deal. Ned, why don’t you say something, instead of sitting there like a goldfish being admired by a tom-cat?” and Bob Baker, who sat beside Jerry Hopkins, the lad at the wheel, turned to his chum in the rear seat of the car.
“Say something!” exclaimed Ned Slade. “I’m as much up in the air about it as you fellows are. All I know is that my dad, and yours, and Jerry’s mother, are having a confab.”
“And a sort of serious confab at that,” added Bob. “Look out there, Jerry!” he cried suddenly. “You nearly ran over that chicken,” and he involuntarily raised his hand toward the steering wheel as a frightened, squawking and cackling hen fluttered from under the front wheels of the automobile, shedding feathers on the way. Then Bob remembered one of the first ethics of automobiling, which is never to interfere with the steersman, and he drew back his hand.