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DESIGN FOR TRANSFORMATIVE
LEARNING

The creative strategies in Design for Transformative Learning ofer a playful and
practical approach to learning from and adapting to a rapidly changing world.
Seeing continuous learning as more than the periodic acquisition of new skills
this book presents a design-led approach to revising the stories we tell ourselves,
unlearning old habits and embracing new practices.
This book maps learning opportunities across the contemporary landscape,
narrating global case studies from K12, higher education, design consultancies
and researchers. It ofers narrative context, best practices and emergent strategies
for how designers can partner in the important work of advancing a lifetime of
learning. Committed to driving sustained transformation this is a playbook of
practical moves for designing memory-making, perspective-shifting, hands-on
learning encounters. The book braids stories from design practice with theories
of change, transformative learning literature, cognitive and social psychology
research, afect theory and Indigenous knowing. Positioning the COVID-19
pandemic as a moment to question what was previously normalised, the book
proposes playful strategies for seeding transformational change.
The relational practice at the core of Design for Transformative Learning argues
that if learning is to be transformative the experience must be embodied, cog-
nitive and social. This book is an essential read for design and social innovation
researchers, facilitators of community engagement and co-design workshops,
design and arts educators and professional learning designers. It is a useful primer
for K12 teachers, organisational change practitioners and professional develop-
ment facilitators curious to explore the intersection of design and learning.
Lisa Grocott is currently a Professor of Design and the Director of Won-
derLab at Monash University, Australia where she leads the Future of Work
and Learning research program in the Emergent Technologies Research Lab.
A mother of two children raised in multiple countries, Lisa grew up in Aotearoa
New Zealand with a whakapapa to Ngāti Kahungunu on her mother’s side and
Pākehā from Waikato on her father’s side.
Design for Social Responsibility
Series Editor: Rachel Cooper

Social responsibility, in various disguises, has been a recurring theme in design

for many years. Since the 1960s, several more or less commercial approaches have
evolved. In the 1970s, designers were encouraged to abandon ‘design for proft’
in favour of a more compassionate approach inspired by Papanek. In the 1980s
and 1990s, proft and ethical issues were no longer considered mutually exclusive
and more market-oriented concepts emerged, such as the ‘green consumer’ and
ethical investment. The purchase of socially responsible, ‘ethical’ products and
services has been stimulated by the dissemination of research into sustainability
issues in consumer publications. Accessibility and inclusivity have also attracted a
great deal of design interest and recently designers have turned to solving social
and crime-related problems. Organisations supporting and funding such projects
have recently included the NHS (research into design for patient safety); the
Home Ofce (design against crime); Engineering and Physical Sciences Research
Council (design decision-making for urban sustainability).
Businesses are encouraged (and increasingly forced by legislation) to set their own
socially responsible agendas that depend on design to be realised. Design decisions all
have environmental, social and ethical impacts, so there is a pressing need to provide
guidelines for designers and design students within an overarching framework that
takes a holistic approach to socially responsible design. This edited series of guides is
aimed at students of design, product development, architecture and marketing and
design and management professionals working in the sectors covered by each title.
Each volume includes the background and history of the topic, its signifcance in
social and commercial contexts and trends in the feld. Exemplar design case studies,
guidelines for the designer and advice on tools, techniques and resources are available.

14. Design for People Living with Dementia

Interactions and Innovations
Emmanuel Tsekleves and John Keady

15. Design for Transformative Learning

A Practical Approach to Memory-Making and Perspective-Shifting
Lisa Grocott

For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/Design-

for-Social-Responsibility/book-series/DSR
DESIGN FOR
TRANSFORMATIVE
LEARNING
A Practical Approach to
Memory-Making and
Perspective-Shifting

Lisa Grocott
Cover image: Lisa Grocott
First published 2022
by Routledge
4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2022 Lisa Grocott
The right of Lisa Grocott to be identifed as author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced
or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other
means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and
recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks
or registered trademarks, and are used only for identifcation and
explanation without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A catalog record has been requested for this book
ISBN: 978-1-138-36755-5 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-032-24625-3 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-0-429-42974-3 (ebk)
DOI: 10.4324/9780429429743
Typeset in Bembo
by codeMantra
WEBSITE

The companion website for the book is a practical resource that connects you to
many of the projects, activities, methods, designers and stories introduced here.
The site includes links to downloadable activities, templates for digital learning
encounters, additional refective narratives on transformative experiences and
the book bibliography.

www.designingtransformativelearning.com
Dedication

To my Māori elder, Jonathon Mane-Wheoki, who changed how

I show up in the world without me even noticing.To the young
man in my Māori language class who in one sentence unsettled
my understanding of learning.To Sonali Ohja, who shifted the
trajectory of who I would become in the frst twenty minutes of
meeting her.
Poipoia te kākamo kia puāwai
Nurture the seed and it will grow
CONTENTS

List of fgures xi
List of tables xiii
List of narratives xv
Preface xvii
Acknowledgements xxiii

PART I
Designing Learning Encounters: An Introduction and
an Invitation 1
1 The Design of Transformative Learning Encounters 3
2 Automated Futures, Social Change and Forever Learning
Framing the Research 18
3 Perspective Shifts and New Ways of Being 35
Wonderings 51

PART II
Making Learning: Narratives and Case Studies
from Design Practice 57
4 Designing Making: Expanding the doing of Design 60
5 Design Process: Make Sense to Make Possible 70
6 Design Provocations: Make Visible to Make Believe 82
x Contents

7 Design Methods: Make Fun to Make Tangible 96

8 Design Moves: Make Together to Make Change 107
Wonderings 121

PART III
Designing Learning: Keywords and Stories from
Psychology and Design 125
9 Social Psychology: Learning from Engaging and Empowering 129
10 Cognitive Psychology: Learning from Remembering and
Integrating 145
11 Creative Imagining: Learning from Sensing and Wondering 162
12 Designing Experiences: Learning from Making and Interacting 177
Wonderings 194

PART IV
Transformative Learning: A Matrix, a Constellation, a
Framework and More Questions 201
13 Transformative Engagement: Curiosity, Paradoxes and
Making Reconfgured 204
14 Seeding Transformation through Design:
A Designed Approach 216
15 Shift Work Elaborated: A Contingent Conclusion 233
Wonderings 248

Index 253
FIGURES

0.1 Mapping Curiosity xvii

1.0 The Play Gym 1
1.1 Haptic Hands-on Learning 3
2.1 Orienting Learning Dioramas 18
3.1 Sense-making Materials 35
4.0 A Value Exchange Map 57
4.1 Creative Tensions 61
4.2 Expanded Field of Making 63
4.3 Making Design Constellation 64
5.1 Alternate Worldviews 70
6.1 Making Space 82
7.1 Crafting Attunement 96
8.1 Together/Alone Diorama 107
9.0 ATLAS Design Game 125
9.1 Visualising (not)Belonging 129
10.1 Building and Retrieving Memories 145
11.1 Alibis for Play 162
12.1 An Online Playdate 177
13.0 A Commitment Device 201
13.1 The Worlds We Learn in 204
13.2 Designing Learning Constellation 209
14.1 B’twixt Meta-Learning Record 216
14.2 The Pedagogical Sites of SEED 230
15.1 Climate (in)Action 233
15.2 Seeding Shift Work 235
15.3 The Dimensions of Relational Design 245
TABLES

1.1 Intersecting Assumptions: Positioning Transformative

Learning, Collaborative Designing and Design-based Research 8
13.1 Possible Learning Aims for Designing Transformative Encounters 210
13.2 Potential Design Objectives when Designing Learning 210
13.3 Design Moves and Methods for Designing Engaging Encounters 210
13.4 Worlds We Learn and Live in 213
13.5 Yes/And/Yet Designing Learning Paradoxes 214
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“Makes me think of Wyoming and old broncho days,” went on Dave,
softly. “Guess I won’t do any more riding, though, for a mighty long
time.”
“Oh, fade away with such boasting,” said Victor. “Nothing could make
me believe that you ever rode a broncho.”
“Why, I——”
Dave didn’t get far with his protest.
“Fade!” roared Victor. And the stout boy concluded to abide by the
command.
It was not until half an hour later that the two turned away from the
noise and chaotic confusion in which Spudger’s Great Combined
Peerless Circus and Menagerie was still involved.
“I shouldn’t mind seeing the show,” remarked Victor, “but at ten
o’clock sharp to-morrow morning Uncle Ralph’s yacht pulls out.”
“And our motor car will leave about two p. m.,” said Dave. “So, unless
something happens mighty soon, the adventures of the Rambler
Club in this part of the country will add only a few dozen pages to my
history.”
 CHAPTER VI
JOE RODGERS

Early on the following morning the crowd was sitting in Bob Somers’
room at the hotel. Tom Clifton, at first just mildly vexed, threatened to
become real angry. Victor’s saucy face and ready tongue promised,
before very long, to call down upon his head a storm of wrath from
the future physician.
“I tell you these by-laws and Bob Somers’ ball nine will make a fine
stir among the chaps at the Kingswood High,” he snapped, sternly.
“Read your old by-laws,” challenged Victor, with an aggravating grin.
“I’ll not read ’em,” Tom flung back in icy tones.
“It’s all a pipe dream. Don’t believe the club will ever be formed,
anyway.”
“Then don’t!”
“All right—I won’t!”
“But I’ll bet that before you’re three-sixteenths of an inch taller, just
the same, we’ll have played half a dozen games.”
“Oh my, oh my! Is that so?” jeered Victor.
“Yes, it is so!”
“Come, come, boys,” interposed Dave, smilingly. “No joking, now.
Remember to-day is the day when our paths will be separated by a
waste of water.”
“A little of it sprinkled on that flowery remark wouldn’t be wasted,”
chirruped Victor. “See here, Clifton!”
“Well?”
“Going out with us now?”
“No! I haven’t finished yet. You chaps skip along. But don’t forget to
come back in time.”
Victor was ready with a parting shot.
“Just suppose I should shanghai the whole bunch on board the
‘Fearless’ and take ’em clean to Milwaukee?”
“That’s the way I’d expect them to go, unless they got all smeared up
with cylinder oil,” growled Tom.
“Listen to the smart Aleck! I mean, wouldn’t you be some scared?”
“Hey?” Tom’s usually gruff voice took on an odd note of shrillness.
“Hey?” he repeated, with a rising inflection. “Scared of what?”
“Why, to take that big car out alone.”
Tom’s forbearance was not proof against such insinuations.
“Well, I should rather say not!” he exclaimed, hotly. “I’d drive from
Kenosha to Kingswood without the quiver of an eye.”
“Hear—hear!—A new way to propel a motor car just discovered by
Chauffeur Clifton: no clutch; no gasoline required; ‘without the quiver
of an eye’ runs a car three hundred miles.”
“Oh, you’re mighty brilliant,” snapped Tom.
“Then don’t try to light on me. Are you going to be a flopper, Clifton?”
“A flopper! What in the mischief is that?”
“Well, it’s just like this——” Victor grinned in his most irritating
fashion. “If the boys shouldn’t happen to turn up you’ll know they’ve
gone to Milwaukee with me—see? Now, to flop would mean that
——”
“I hadn’t the nerve to take a flyer alone, I suppose?” supplemented
Tom. For an instant he scowled almost savagely. Then, catching a
wink from Dave Brandon, the expression of his face suddenly
softened. He gave a quiet laugh. “Can’t string me, lad; oh no!”
An approving nod from the historian rewarded this remark.
“Hope it doesn’t rain,” observed Bob, carelessly.
The boys glanced through the window-panes at an even gray
expanse of cloud against which the opposite buildings cut sharply.
“Looks mighty threatening,” admitted Dave. “Isn’t any worse than
yesterday, though.”
“Come ahead, fellows. We’ll start out, anyway,” cried Bob. “So-long,
Tom. Good luck!”
“Say, you Indians, he’s the easiest chap to jolly I ever came across.”
Victor opened the conversation in this agreeable style the moment
the four had stepped into the street.
“You’d better leave Tom alone,” cautioned Bob.
“He might take the law into his own hands,” drawled Dave. He smiled
whimsically. “When Tom gets started——”
“It must be something awful,” finished Victor, with a gurgle of mirth.
“Clifton’s a mighty fine chap, Vic,” declared Charlie, reprovingly.
“Wait till you know him a bit better. Where away, Bob?”
“It’s Spudger’s Great Combined Peerless Circus and Menagerie for
me.” Victor spoke in tones which admitted of no argument. He poked
Dave playfully in the ribs. “How about it, Brownie?”
The historian grinned complacently.
“I’m willing. What do you say, fellows?”
“Well, I wanted to take another look at Captain Bunderley’s yacht,”
answered Bob, slowly. “Still——”
“Run along, then,” grinned Victor. “Brandon’s on my side. Where do
you stand, Blakelets? Don’t hesitate. He who hesitates is lost.”
“No one ever could be in a nice little place like Kenosha,” said
Charlie, with a faint smile.
“Very good—that is for you. Which is it—circus or boat?”
The “grind” had long since outgrown such amusements as the
circus. Thoughts of the sawdust arena conjured up before his mental
vision nothing but frivolity and foolishness, so a prompt, “I’m with
Bob, Vic,” answered the query of the lawyer’s son.
“My name isn’t Bob Vic,” smiled Victor.
The smile presently grew into a laugh of such proportions that he
began to slap his knees in the paroxysm of mirth.
“Well?” demanded Bob, somewhat astonished.
“For goodness’ sake, what is the matter now?” asked Charlie.
“You’re the funniest chap I ever saw. Cut it out. People are looking.”
“Let ’em look,” gurgled Victor. “Something rich just struck me. Ha, ha!
Maybe Brandon could get a job as clown. Ha, ha! Wouldn’t that
round face of his look swell touched up with a little powder and paint,
eh? He could read some of those famous poems, too!”
“I’ll give the matter careful consideration,” said Dave, good-naturedly.
“And you might try for the position of animal tamer.”
“I’m an Indian tamer, now,” piped Victor. He seized Dave’s arm,
jerking him around. “You and I are going this way, Brownie. So-long,
Boblets. In about an hour we’ll meet you and Blakelets at the wharf.”
“All right,” laughed Bob. “I guess you’ll find us swapping land tales
for the sea tales of Captain Bunderley. So-long.”
Victor’s delicate fingers closed tightly around Dave’s wrist.
“Come ahead fast,” he ordered, imperiously. “Must be an awful lot to
see around that show.”
In a short time the two turned a corner where they came in sight, far
ahead, of a group of dull gray tents and tarpaulin-covered wagons.
On the lot the two boys found, despite the early hour, a scene of
great activity. Stock was being watered or fed, while performers and
other employees crowded the men’s tent. Huge wagons cast blurred
shadows over the ground. One lone chariot, left outside to whet the
appetite of the curious, stood before the main entrance. Its gilt
ornamentation, of wondrous curves and twists, framed a painting in
which the artist had allowed his fervid imagination full sway. A
hunter, in the African wilds, lay in the midst of tall, tangled grass with
the paws of a gigantic lion planted on his breast. The animal’s
mouth, astonishingly wide open, revealed a row of glistening teeth.
“That artist was certainly great on the dental work,” pronounced
Victor.
To another school of art, according to Dave, belonged several huge
canvases which flanked the main entrance. These were painted with
a bolder, broader touch, and represented “Adolphus,” the world-
renowned boy giant, “Zingar,” the celebrated dwarf, “Monsieur
Ormond de Sylveste,” wizard of bareback riders, in his speed-
defying and world-stupefying exhibition, “Tobanus,” the apparently
jointless wonder, a contortionist and sword swallower, and, lastly,
“Colossus,” “Titan,” and “Nero,” the three great African elephants
whose stupendous feats had amazed the whole civilized world.
“Some show, this,” laughed Victor, his eyes roaming over the scene
with great interest.
They crossed the lot, peeped into the mess tent, then wandered from
place to place, sometimes walking in the shadow of monster wagons
or long trucks whose heavy wheels were often sunk deep in the turf.
“Looks as if Spudger’s was here for life,” commented Victor.
“And yet the circus will probably leave to-night,” said Dave. “A
strenuous life, indeed—positively makes me weary even to think of
it. Oh ho! Come on, Vic.”
A nice, comfortable-looking stump a few yards away had attracted
the historian’s attention. Its call was altogether too strong to be
resisted. Unheeding the loud expostulations of Victor, he walked
over, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, seated himself upon it.
“A fine place to get a good perspective of the show, Vic,” he
exclaimed. “I’d like to make a sketch.”
“It won’t be done while I’m here,” said Victor, in positive tones;
“unless,” he added, mischievously, “you can work while your neck is
being tickled with a blade of grass.”
“Tyrant!” laughed Dave. He raised his finger warningly. “I give notice,
however: no power can budge me for at least five minutes.”
Victor looked displeased.
“That’s a challenge. We’ll see about it,” he snapped.
The lad immediately made an attempt to convince Dave that his
opinion on the subject was an entirely mistaken one. But all his
pushing and tugging merely resulted in Victor making himself quite
hot and uncomfortable.
It annoyed him very much indeed.
A second and more strenuous effort to dislodge the stout boy
brought forth a mild protest.
“Quit it!” commanded Dave.
“Humph; I don’t have to!”
The next instant Victor found his wrists being held in a grip of steel.
“Let go, Brandon; let go!” he stormed. “I’ll punch your head if you
don’t.”
“Promise to stop, Vic?”
“No; I’ll promise nothing, you big Indian, you large spot in the
landscape! Let go!”
“Only when I have your word, Vic.”
Victor struggled furiously to free himself.
“How dare you grab me like that, Brandon?” he howled. “Ouch! It
hurts like fun. Gee, if I don’t get square with you for this I never saw
a senator—and my father’s best friend’s a senator!”
“Hello, Jumbo, what’s up?”
This salutation, uttered in very loud tones, put a stop to further
hostilities.
Both instantly turned.
A lad—and a very odd-looking lad indeed—had just stepped from
behind a wagon and was surveying them with a curious mixture of
amusement and surprise. He appeared to be about fifteen years of
age. His round, chubby face was liberally besprinkled with freckles; a
mop of thick yellowish hair, supporting a dilapidated cap, straggled
across a broad forehead, the wind occasionally blowing it in his
eyes.
Dave found it difficult to repress a laugh.
“Looks like a real little character,” he said, softly, to himself.
“Hello, Jumbo, what’s up?” repeated the boy.
He shuffled forward, his movements being somewhat impeded by a
huge bucket of water in one hand and a broom in the other.
“Say—if ye’re abusin’ that little kid I won’t stan’ for it. Do you get
me?” he exclaimed.
Victor, already angry, bristled up.
“Why, we were only fooling, you silly duffer,” he retorted; “and——”
“Good-morning!” put in Dave, politely.
“Mornin’! Weren’t no scrap, then? Say, Jumbo, you’re too late;
Whiffin’s hired a fat man a’ready. You lookin’ for a job, Buster?”
Victor swelled up with hot indignation. To be addressed in such
slighting terms by a boy whose rough attire and general appearance
indicated a very low status in society was more than his nature could
stand.
“Get away from here, boy,” he snapped. “We didn’t say anything to
you.”
The freckle-faced lad’s mouth flew open. He set down broom and
bucket.
“Well, by gum, I said somethin’ to you.”
“And you needn’t say any more. Go on about your business.”
“If yer wasn’t so small I’d fetch you a clip for that.”
Victor’s anger rose to the boiling point.
“Chase him away, you Indian!” he shouted to Dave. “See here,
Freckles, my father is one of the biggest lawyers in Chicago.”
“I wouldn’t keer if he owned a whole sideshow, an’——”

“ARE YOU WORKING FOR THE CIRCUS?”

“Come, come!” interposed Dave. “This won’t do.” A touch of authority
in his tone stopped a hot reply from Victor. “Are you working for the
circus?—Yes? Well, what is your name?”
“Me name is Mister Joe Rodgers.”
This answer, accompanied by an expansive grin and a wink, to
Victor’s utter astonishment and disgust, brought forth a low chuckling
laugh from the stout boy.
“Come on, Brandon,” urged Victor, stiffly. “You’re keeping the water-
carrier from his job.”
“Say, ain’t them clothes o’ hisn somethin’ fine? Bet he never did a
lick o’ real work in his life. D’ye know what a pay envelope looks like,
bub?”
Victor brandished his small white fists furiously and dashed in front
of the circus boy. But Dave, quickly springing between the two,
prevented actual hostilities.
“Cut it out, Victor,” he said, sternly.
“Get away, you big lump!” howled young Collins. “Take his part—
that’s right. You’ve got a yellow streak a yard wide.”
“By gum, him an’ Peter Whiffin ’ud make a fine pair this mornin’,”
exclaimed “Mister Joe Rodgers,” with a long, critical stare at the
lawyer’s son. “Ha, ha! Whiffin can’t find no barker; he’s up ag’in it
bad. Him an’ him”—he indicated Victor—“is sure like cats that’s had
their tails trod on hard. I’d like to cool ’em off with this bucket o’
water. I’m a purty good feller, I am; I ain’t a bit perwerse. But don’t
nobody rile me.”
“All of which relieves our minds,” remarked Dave, gravely. “Hold on,
Vic!”
Victor, however, thoroughly disgusted, had no intention of waiting.
Only a week before the hand of a senator had patted him on the
shoulder in a fatherly way—and now! Well—“Mister Joe Rodgers”
evidently didn’t know to whom he was talking. It was outrageous;
and, what was more, Dave had calmly permitted both of them to be
insulted without even putting in a word of protest.
“I wish I’d never heard of this confounded bunch of wonders,” he
said in audible tones.
A glance over his shoulder showed Dave looming up close behind
and the water-carrier tramping across the lot with his heavy burden.
“Oh, I’m mad clean through, Brandon,” snapped Victor. “Don’t take
my arm. No; I won’t listen.”
He did, however. Dave had a way that was hard to resist. The
historian’s job was not an easy one, but there were so many
interesting sights and sounds connected with “Spudger’s Peerless”
that the angry look on Victor’s face gradually faded away.
After every portion of the grounds had been visited Victor spoke up.
“It’s time to get over to the wharf, Brandon,” he said. “Guess by this
time Somers has talked Uncle Ralph off his feet.”
“Then, to save him from serious injury, we’ll hurry,” laughed Dave.
“Aren’t you going to say good-bye to your new-found friend, ‘Mister’
Joe Rodgers?”
“A queer little chap,” mused Dave. “Guess I’ll never see him again.”
“And I certainly hope I never shall,” voiced the other, with a growl.
When the two arrived at the wharf an amazing howl of dismay from
Victor was Dave Brandon’s first intimation that something
extraordinary had happened.
The “Fearless” was nowhere to be seen.
 CHAPTER VII
DESERTED

Victor stared at Dave in unconcealed astonishment.

“Hello! What do you think of that, Brandon?” he gasped. “The yacht
has actually gone off without me.”
“Of course not, Vic!”
“Perhaps it’s right before my eyes—only I can’t see it?” exclaimed
Victor, witheringly. “Or maybe you think Uncle Ralph is putting the
‘Fearless’ through some funny capers a mile up in the sky?”
“It’s a kind of puzzle, I’ll admit. But——”
“I don’t like it a little bit,” broke in Victor, beginning to pace the wharf.
“Uncle Ralph intended to leave at ten. It’s nine-fifteen now.”
“Very likely he has taken Bob and Charlie on a short cruise,”
suggested Dave, consolingly.
“What for, I’d like to know?”
“So should I.”
“Looks mighty queer to me.” A heavy scowl rested on Victor’s face.
“Let’s get off this old pile of boards, and——”
“Go back to the hotel, I suppose?”
“You suppose wrong, as usual. In the mood I’m in I might give the
by-law committee what I almost handed to Joe Rodgers. Back to that
fine combination of Spudger and Whiffin.”
“But there’s three-quarters of an hour to spare, and the yacht is
almost sure to be back within that time,” objected Dave, glancing at
his watch.
“I won’t wait.”
Dave’s resourcefulness was called into play. By means of a vigorous
argument he managed to prolong their stay for a few moments, at
the expiration of which he found himself alone. Laughing softly, he
sat down on a box on the edge of the wharf.
Ten o’clock arrived. Dave took another careful survey of the river,
but, seeing no signs of the motor yacht, he accordingly walked off to
join the figure loitering in the distance.
“I knew it wouldn’t be there,” was Victor’s greeting.
“Perhaps in a quarter of an hour——” began the stout boy.
“Nix,” interrupted Victor. “Uncle Ralph has kept me waiting; I’ll keep
him waiting. I’m going to the circus.”
“Tyrant!” laughed Dave. “Lead on, Prince. I’ll follow.”
“Here now: don’t you start any funny prattling, Brownie. My name is
Victor.”
“Human nature is indeed a curious study,” sighed the historian.
After another trip to Spudger’s the boys started for the wharf again.
“Gee, if Uncle Ralph isn’t there by this time I’ll give it up,” remarked
Victor.
Uncle Ralph wasn’t there. And if Victor did give it up he kept right on
talking.
The lad’s face reflected his keen disappointment. He was beginning
to feel very angry and disgusted. He was also extremely mystified.
What could it mean?
“It looks as if I’m going to get cheated out of that dandy motor yacht
trip to-day, Brandon.” The scowling lines on his forehead deepened.
“By George, I never felt so mad in all my life. It’s after eleven, now.”
The two were so busily engaged in conversation that they failed to
notice a little fat man who presently emerged from a shanty not far
away and ambled slowly out on the wharf toward them.
With his face wreathed in smiles he approached, coughing in a sort
of apologetic fashion as he said, touching his cap:
“I beg pardon, gents, but I’d like to speak to ye jist a moment.”
Victor eyed his slouchy figure with a disdainful stare.
“No—no; not even a cent!” he exclaimed almost spitefully. “You’re
husky enough to work. Go hustle after a job!”
The humorous light instantly left the little fat man’s eyes, to be
followed by such a ferocious expression that Victor thought it wise to
walk briskly away.
“Wal, if it don’t beat all,” growled the offended citizen. He struck the
palm of his hand a savage blow. “Wonder what the captain ’ud say to
that?”
Finding no answer to this perplexing problem, he started to follow the
retreating lads; then, apparently reconsidering, stopped short.
“They kin find out for theirselves,” he grunted, decidedly.
When Victor, a few moments later, shot a glance over his shoulder
he saw the man walking slowly away from the wharf.
“The idea of a husky lump like that asking for money!” he sniffed.
“He didn’t,” returned Dave.
“Well, he was going to. I’m glad I called him down. And I don’t care
what you say, Brandon, there’s something funny about this boat
business,” Victor almost screeched.
“We’ll go right over to the hotel now, and see Tom,” said Dave, firmly.
There was a significance in his manner which Victor had already
learned to comprehend—it meant that his wishes were to be obeyed.
Fuming with impatience, and feeling a deep sense of personal injury
at the way things had gone, he followed his companion.
“The garage is on our way,” remarked Dave, a few minutes later. “I
want to see if that motor car has been made ready for our trip.”
Benjamin Rochester, the colored lad, with an oily rag and a can of
gasoline in his hand, looked up quickly as their forms were
silhouetted against the open doorway.
“Fo’ de land’s sake,” he gasped, “I thought you fellers had done
gone!”
“Hello!” cried Dave.
He looked sharply around the garage. But the huge form of the
Rambler Club’s motor car was not revealed to his eager gaze.
“What has become of our car, Benjamin?” he demanded, sternly.
“De lan’ sake! You didn’t know?”
“Now what’s coming, I wonder!” growled Victor.
“Why, dat tall young gemman has jist took it away, suh,” answered
Benjamin, scenting a mystery, and beginning to show the whites of
his eyes.
“Took it away?” exclaimed Dave, incredulously. “You can’t mean that
our Tom took the machine away?”
“Fo’ de lan’s sake! An’ yo’ didn’t know?”
“Well, this beats the Dutch, and the American, and the English, all
put together!” exploded Victor, so fiercely that Benjamin, somewhat
startled, side-stepped out of range.
“And where was he going?”
“To Milwaukee, suh.”
“To Milwaukee?” echoed Dave and Victor, almost in the same breath.
“Dat’s perxactly what he done said, suh.”
The boys looked at each other in amazement. Victor clenched his
small fists and whistled shrilly, while Dave gazed thoughtfully at the
grinning countenance of Benjamin Rochester.
“Tom gone to Milwaukee!” he murmured, in highly perplexed tones.
“And left no message for us?”
“No, suh; de gemman didn’t say nuffin,” answered Benjamin. He
wagged his head knowingly. “But I had me s’picions, suh; ’deed I
had. He acted awful queer, like he were done skeered, suh; an’ kep’
a-lookin’ an’ a-lookin’.”
“Here, Brownie”—Victor Collins seized Dave’s wrist and fairly
dragged him toward the door—“come right along. I’ve got an idea.”
The instant they were outside, Victor, his eyes sparkling, stopped by
the curb and began a broadside.
“Say, Brandon, remember how I kidded Clifton this morning?” he
demanded.
“Yes,” answered Dave.
“Well, I guess he was actually thin-skinned enough to believe I really
meant it. I’ll bet he went tearing over to Uncle Ralph and jollied him
into going off without me.”
“What a ridiculous idea, Vic!” laughed Dave. “Why should Tom have
done such a thing?”
Victor eyed him scornfully.
“Just to get ahead of the game, that’s why. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t, Vic.”
“Then brush up your perceptive faculties a bit. Here it is a second
time: he was so afraid that I might get Uncle Ralph to take you chaps
to Milwaukee as a joke—see?—that he sets his wits to work, goes
over to the yacht to find out, discovers that you and I are at the
circus, and plays the joke first. See again?”
“Bob and Charlie would never have stood for such a thing,” declared
Dave.
“They would!” returned Victor. “And I know Uncle Ralph; he’s just the
one to fall for a game like that.”
The stout boy raised his hand protestingly.
“Why, Vic!”
“Oh, don’t ‘why Vic’ me!” snapped Victor. “I tell you, Uncle Ralph
Bunderley probably sat down and roared.”
“You won’t think so when you feel in a better humor,” laughed Dave.
“I don’t care what you say, Brandon; that’s the way I figure it out.
Anyway, if that long-legged Indian did engineer it”—he flourished his
fists savagely—“he’ll stop a few of these!”
“Let’s try and reason——”
“There isn’t any reason to it. That Clifton fellow has just turned the
trick; he’s getting square for some of the true things I said about
him.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said Dave.
“Oh, I reckon you’ll stand up for that grand and perfect Clifton.
Honest, though, I didn’t think the sly, foxy Indian would do Brownie
up brown like this.”
Dave, refusing to countenance such an idea, propounded theory
after theory, each of which his companion promptly rejected.
“There’s no use talking, Brandon,” he exclaimed, at length. “I
declare, I’m mad enough to punch his head off. The yacht’s gone;
the gasoline tank’s gone; and we’re here in Kenosha.”
“And I’m likely to stay for some time to come, unless the fellows turn
up.”
The worried expression on the historian’s face gave place to a broad
grin.
“Why?” demanded Victor.
“Because I’m stranded—broke—cast into the seething vortex of life
without gold, silver, nickel, or even copper to lend me a helping
hand.”
“How in the dickens did such a thing as that happen?”
“It’s this way, Vic: after I’d paid my way out to Chicago I didn’t have a
red cent left. So I was obliged to throw myself on the tender mercies
of the crowd until we reach Milwaukee.”
“Isn’t this all another joke?” queried Victor, suspiciously.
“Not a bit of it, Vic.”
“Well, if they’ve been lending you cash how is it you’re broke?”
“I was going to get another five from Bob this morning.”
Victor’s eyes began to twinkle. Then, like a flash, his mood
completely changed. A wide grin merged into a laugh; his slender
form shook with a perfect storm of merriment, while Benjamin, from
the doorway, looked on with wondering eyes.
“My, oh my, but don’t I feel sorry for you, Brownie!” he gasped,
between another succession of outbursts. “Broke? Gee! I’ll bet you
are just shaking in your shoes.”
Dave smiled calmly.
“Maybe so, Vic,” he returned, good-naturedly. “Perhaps our stay in
Kenosha may add more pages to my history than I anticipated.”
To Victor’s mind there was something extremely comical in Dave
Brandon’s unexpected situation. His face now actually beamed.
Things were at last breaking in a way to suit him. Without a move on
his part, events had so shaped themselves that at least one member
of the Rambler Club was likely to come tumbling down several pegs
in a hurry.
Victor wasn’t really such a bad chap. He simply possessed an over-
supply of the weaknesses of human nature, which had been fostered
—unintentionally, of course—by a too-indulgent parent.
“I’ll lend the big Indian just as much of the cash as he wants,”
reflected the boy, “but he’ll have to get off his high perch and ask me
for it. Gee, won’t I laugh when the great depending-upon-himself
fellow hollers for help!”
In a moment, slapping Dave on the shoulder, he said:
“What are you going to do?”
“Go back to the hotel. Perhaps Tom may have left some message for
us.”
“Well, I don’t believe it.”
With a sigh, Dave started off.
“Good-bye, Benjamin,” he called, catching sight of the wondering
colored lad. “I only hope this is ‘much ado about nothing,’ or——”
“It won’t be any ‘Tempest in a teapot’ when I get hold of Wyoming
Tom,” said Victor, decidedly; “and don’t you forget it.”
“Dar am sartingly somethin’ queer ’bout dat dar bunch,” murmured
Benjamin Rochester, shaking his head knowingly.
When the two arrived at the hotel the clerk told them that Tom had
left no message.
“Of course the tall Indian didn’t!” exclaimed the smaller lad.
To his astonishment, Dave ambled slowly into the reception room
and took a seat.
“I say, Brownie,” remarked Victor, “I’m going out to get some grub.”
“Hope you’ll enjoy it,” came an easy response.
“Why in thunder doesn’t he ask?” thought Victor. Then, aloud, he
added:
“Aren’t you hungry, Brownie?”
“Sure, Vic; always am.”
“Coming, then?”
“Can’t!”
“Why not?”
“For obvious reasons, my dear sir.”
“Humph! Wants me to offer it to him. Not on your life!” was another of
Victor’s reflections. “How are you going to manage, Brandon?”
“Time will tell, Vic.”
The Chicago boy stood, irresolute; his better nature prompted him to
offer assistance. But the slights Victor imagined he had suffered
suddenly flashed into his mind.
“No; I won’t do it. If the duffer is too all-fired proud to speak up he’ll
get out of his fix the best way he can.”
“No use to wait for me, Vic,” said Dave.
“Just as you say, Brandon. So-long!”
Once outside the room, however, Victor’s conscience smote him. He
walked back and poked his head inside the doorway. “I’ll give him
another chance,” he said to himself.
“Say, Brandon, what’s your program?”
“Time will tell, Vic,” responded the stout boy.
With a snort of disgust, Victor turned on his heel.
“This ought to teach the big Indian a jolly good lesson,” he muttered,
fiercely. “After a while he’ll be singing a mighty different tune.”
When Victor Collins, refreshed by an ample repast, returned to the
hotel he received his third surprise of the day.