It was several days after this, during which time Tom and Ned had had many talks about the proposed trip.  They had figured on what sort of a craft to use in the journey.  Tom had about decided on a small, but very powerful, dirigible balloon, that could be packed in a small compass and taken along.

“This city may be in some mountain valley, and a balloon will be the only way we can get to it,” he told Ned.

“That’s right,” agreed his chum.  “By the way, you haven’t heard any more about Andy; have you?”

“Not a thing.  Haven’t even seen him.  None of us have.”

“There goes Rad, I wonder if he’s seen him.”

“No, or he’d have mentioned it to me.  Hey, Rad,” Tom called to the colored man, “what are you going to do?”

“Whitewash de back fence, Massa Tom.  It’s in a mos’ disrupted state ob disgrace.  I’se jest natchally got t’ whitewash it.”

“All right, Rad, and when you get through come back here.  I’ve got another job for you.”

“A’right, Massa Tom, I shorely will,” and Rad limped off with his pail of whitewash, and the long-handled brush.

It may have been fate that sent Andy Foger along the rear road a little later, and past the place where Eradicate was making the fence less “disrupted.”  It may have been fate or Andy may have just been sneaking along to see if he could overhear anything of Tom’s plans—­a trick of which he was frequently guilty.  At any rate, Andy walked, past where Eradicate was whitewashing.  The colored man saw the red-haired lad coming and murmured: 

“Dere’s dat no ’count white trash!  I jest wish Massa Tom was hear now.  He’d jest natchally wallop Andy,” and Eradicate moved his longhandled brush up and down, as though he were coating the Foger lad with the white stuff.

As it happened, Eradicate was putting some of the liquid on a particularly rough spot in the fence, a spot low down, and this naturally made the handle of his brush stick out over the sidewalk, and at this moment Andy Foger got there.

“Here, you black rascal!” the lad angrily exclaimed.  “What do you mean by blocking the sidewalk that way?  It’s against the law, and I could have you arrested for that.”

“No, could yo’ really now?” asked Eradicate drawlingly for he was not afraid of Andy.

“Yes, I could, and don’t you give me any of your back-talk!  Get that brush out of the way!” and Andy kicked the long handle.

The natural result followed.  The other end of the brush, wet with whitewash, described a curve through the air, coming toward the mean bully.  And as the blow of Andy’s foot jarred the brush loose, the next moment it fell right on Andy’s head, the white liquid trickling down on his clothes, for Eradicate was not a miser when it came to putting on whitewash.

For a moment Andy could not speak.  Then he burst out with: 

“Hi!  You did that on purpose!  I’ll have you in jail for that!  Look at my hat, it’s ruined!  Look at my clothes!  They’re ruined!  Oh, I’ll make you pay for this!”