“It means to stop,” said her father, as he slowed up the machine.

“What for?” Bunny inquired.

“Well, he may be a constable—­that is a kind of a policeman,” said Mr. Brown.  “He wants us to stop, thinking, maybe, that we were running too fast.  But I know we weren’t.”

“Will he ’rest us?” asked Sue.  “If he does I’m going to hide Sallie Malinda.  I’m not going to have her locked up!”

“Nothing will happen,” said Mr. Brown with a laugh.  “I have run an automobile long enough to know what to do.”

Mr. Brown brought the big machine to a stop near the spot where the man was standing with upraised hand.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Brown good-naturedly.  “Were we going too fast?”

“Oh, nopey!” exclaimed the man with a laugh.  “I jest stopped you to see what kind of a show you was givin’.”

“What kind of show we are giving?” repeated Mr. Brown in surprise.

“Yep!  I thought maybe you was one o’ them patent medicine shows that goes ’round in big wagons and stops here and there, and a feller sings, or plays, or somethin’, then the head man or woman sells medicine what’ll cure everything you ever had in the way of pain or ever expect to have.  I thought I’d see what kind of a show you’ve got.”

“We haven’t any,” laughed Mr. Brown.  “You may look in the auto if you like, and see how we live in it.  We are traveling for pleasure.”

“I see you be, now,” said the man after a look.  “Wa’al, I’m right sorry I stopped you.”

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Brown pleasantly.  “This is a heavy machine, and I don’t like to get it to going too fast downhill.  It’s too hard to stop.  So it’s just as well we slowed up.”

“You see I’m the inspector of all them travelin’ shows,” went on the man.  “Ribbans is my name, Hank Ribbans.  Every medicine show or other show that comes to town has to git a permit from me, else they can’t show.  But you’re all right, pass on.”

An idea came into Mrs. Brown’s head.

“Do you have many shows passing through here, with musicians who play to draw a crowd?” she asked.

“Oh, sartin, surely.  ’Bout one once a week as a rule.  There was one that showed here two or three nights ago—­no, come to think of it now, it was last night.  There was a young feller—­nothin’ but a boy—­dressed up in the reddest and bluest suit you ever see.  And say, how he could play that old banjo!”

“Oh, a banjo!  Maybe it was Fred!” cried Bunny.

The same thought came to his father and mother.

“Tell us about this boy,” requested Mr. Brown.  “We are looking for one who plays the banjo,” and he described Fred Ward.

“Well, this can’t be the one you’re lookin’ for,” said Mr. Ribbans.  “’Cause this feller was a negro.”

“Maybe he was blacked up like a minstrel,” said Bunny.

“I couldn’t say as to that,” returned the inspector.  “Anyhow they paid for their license all right, and they sold a powerful lot o’ Dr. Slack’s Pain Killer.  Then they went on out of town.  That’s all I know.  Well, you don’t need a license from me; so go ahead, folks!”