Sam laid before his friends the story of Zorn’s curious proposal,
but said nothing of the manner of his parting with the adversary.
Not that he was disposed to forget the treacherous blow; indeed, his
determination some day to visit physical retribution upon the other
was stronger than ever, but he felt that there were more important
and pressing questions to be answered before he could dispose of his
personal feud with Zorn.
The offer made by Zorn puzzled the clan. How could he clean the
slate, as he had said? How could he establish, to the satisfaction
of the faculty, that the Trojan had not broken the rules? How could
he persuade the school that Sam had not been an intentional witness
against Walker? The club held long and serious debate on these matters.
Step was of opinion that Zorn was acting in bad faith, and cared only
to secure the support of the club. This obtained, he would simply not
attempt to carry out his agreement.
“Why, he’d just snap his fingers at us and laugh in our faces,” Step
insisted. “When we kicked, he’d call us easy marks and ask us what we
were going to do about it. But if it ever comes to a vote, count me
against Ed Zorn, first, last and all the time.”
Poke agreed with his chum. Zorn was bluffing, he argued. Herman Boyd
appeared to be less certain that Zorn could do nothing to make good his
offer, but was no more disposed than were the others to accept it. The
Shark shrugged his shoulders.
“How can you figure this out?” he growled. “No known quantities! All
guesswork and say-so!”
The Trojan, who logically might have been expected to display most
interest in the proposal, was indifferent. The feeling that he had been
treated with gross unfairness was still strong with him, and made him
bitter to a degree which sometimes taxed even Sam’s patience.
Orkney had little to say; but, as Sam observed, was not inclined
to regard Zorn as unable to carry out his proposal. Questioned in
private, Tom confessed a good deal of appreciation of Zorn’s capacity
for mischief.
“I’ve been picking up what I could about the stories that have been
spread about the school,” Orkney explained, “and they’re corkers, all
right! I don’t wonder we’re in bad. About one part truth and nine parts
fake--that’s the way with them. But the grain of fact seems to save the
mass of falsehood. And they’re clever and ingenious--that’s what makes
it so hard to try to disprove them. So I’m sure Zorn is at the bottom
of the row, and just as sure that he knows what he is about, and has
some definite scheme he is following out. And if part of that scheme
calls for undoing what he’s done--why, he’s the one fellow who can undo
it.”
“But how?” Sam queried.
Orkney shook his head. “I don’t know. Mind you, he took care not to
give you a line on his method. He said, didn’t he, that all the trouble
might have come from a ‘queer accident’ or from ‘crooked work’--he
wasn’t saying which it was? Well, then! What he meant was that we’d
have to deal with his offer blindfolded, as it were, and trust to his
word. He was taking pains not to give you any more information than he
had to give. It all fits in with the rest of his performance.”
“But you’re not for taking up with him?”
“Not on your life!” said Tom curtly. “We’ll beat him yet, and we’ll
beat him without any low-down deals.”
Sam nodded. “That’s my notion, too. Clever as he is, he’ll make some
false step, or a break’ll come somewhere. You can’t beat the truth in
the long run.”
“You’ve said it!” Orkney agreed with conviction.
Sam laughed. “But Lon said it first,” he remarked.
For all the boys it was a relief to turn from plots and intrigues to
the good sport of planning and building the camp. Possibly the plans
were more entertaining than their execution. Poke and Step left details
to the others, who put their heads together and discussed the rival
merits of a tent and a shack, and finally sought Lon’s advice.
Lon, as it proved, favored a tent.
“You see, boys, you’re more or less transients,” he explained. “Now,
there’ll be some things that’ll be like the mumps--you can’t tell how
much they’ll bother till you’ve had a go with ’em. Take the ’skeeters,
for instance. The old pond used to have a sight of ’em, and you don’t
know whether they’ve moved out jest because it’s been turned into a
lake. Then there’s the fishin’. It used to be prime off the big rock,
but fish are notional as folks, and as freaky. Then, too, there’s the
permission to use the land--who owns that shore, anyway?”
None of the club could answer the question.
“Well, you’d better find out,” Lon counseled. “Course, in the old
days, if you wanted to put in a week or so in the woods, it was a case
of move in and welcome, so long’s you behaved and didn’t cut growin’
timber, and didn’t start forest fires----By the way, boys, that’s a
thing you’ll have to be careful about; it’s gettin’ powerful tindery
in the woods this dry spell. But nowadays we’re gettin’ fashionable,
and they’re cuttin’ up lots along the lake shore, and owners may be
fussy. So, seems to me I wouldn’t be making many permanent improvements
anywhere till I found out whether I was goin’ to be allowed to enjoy
the use and usufruct o’ the same.... Two dollars, please!”
“What for?” the boys chorused.
“My fee for legal advice!” Lon chuckled. “Reg’lar office rate, ain’t
it? Settle up!”
“Guess you’ll have to charge it,” Sam told him.
“Can’t do that, but I’ll drop out to the camp when you’re settled, and
take it out in board and lodgin’s.”
“That’s all right,” Sam declared. “But we’ll want to have you along,
anyway.”
“Then find out whose land you’re on, and get his permission. I allers
did hate to be waked up at midnight and told to move on because I was
trespassin’.”
“We’ll attend to it,” Sam said. It was good and sensible advice, and he
meant to improve it; but, as it chanced, there was a difficulty in the
way. Division lines in wooded tracts are often very faintly indicated;
even neighbors’ ideas on the subject are vague. Sam made inquiries;
failed to gain light; discovered nobody who offered objections, and
came to the conclusion that a tent pitched near the big rock was not
likely to lead to protest.
Tom Orkney had an old tent, somewhat in need of patches and repairs;
Herman Boyd produced the remnants of one still older but furnishing
material for strengthening the other. The club massed its strength for
cutting and sewing, fitting fresh guy ropes and providing pegs. Then
one afternoon Lon announced himself ready to transport the equipment to
the lake, and Sam started out to round up his clan.
Orkney, the Trojan and Herman were reached by telephone, but the Shark
was not at home. Sam, descending upon the airship builders, found him
in consultation with Poke and Step. Poke’s barn was more than ever like
a cavern of mystery. The blankets at the windows were drawn back for
the sake of better light for the workers, but the confusion of tools,
cans, motor parts and wire had multiplied since Sam’s former visit. In
the midst of it all loomed the framework of the wings.
Sam peered at the machine with lively curiosity.
“Hulloo! Going to make it a monoplane, are you?” said he. “When I was
here before you hadn’t decided.”
Poke coughed, and glanced a bit nervously at the Shark. “Ahem!
Why--why, Sam, I guess the monoplane will work better, seeing the
kind of motor we’ve got--high speed kind, you know. And the Shark--he
says----”
The Shark emitted a sound. It was not a groan, nor a grunt, nor yet a
chuckle; but, somehow, it suggested all three. Sam turned to him.
“The other day I guessed you knew something about this, though you kept
your own counsel--that day we were looking over the open field near the
lake.”
“Umph! Then you guessed right.”
“What do you think of the scheme?”
“Crazy!” snapped the Shark.
There Poke intervened. “Let me explain, Sam! I’m not crazy, and the
scheme isn’t crazy. There’s a lot of mathematics in flying. That’s why
I called in the Shark to figure out things for me. If anybody can do
it, he can. Now, you see, flying is just lifting a load in the air and
moving ahead. To do that you’ve got to apply power to a propeller. I’ve
told the Shark to calculate how many revolutions a minute the propeller
has got to make to do the business for us, and what the plane space
should be, and a few other little things like that.”
“Yes, that’s all he wants me to tell him!” jeered the Shark.
“Well, that’s why brains like yours are put in anybody’s head,” quoth
Poke, philosophically.
“As if I’d ever specialized on aeronautics! Why, I’ve got to dig the
whole thing out!”
“Then you haven’t given your opinion yet?” Sam asked.
“Of course not!” cried the Shark; then he grinned. “I did tell Poke one
thing, though. I showed him he’d made his first design of a plane so
wide he couldn’t get the contraption through the barn door, no matter
how he turned it.”
Poke’s face grew a rosy red. “Oh, that! Well, I guess we did make
a little miscalculation. But it didn’t matter. All we’ve got to do
is to make up for reduced plane area by increasing the speed of the
machine--speeding up the propeller and engine, you know.”
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Well, I’m right about it. You see, the faster we fly, the bigger the
lift. I’ve read that, and it’s plain as the nose of your face, anyway.”
Sam looked his doubts. “I should think there might be trouble in
increasing the power indefinitely.”
“Oh, Step’s worked out a plan--have the propeller turn three times,
say, instead of two for every revolution of the engine--that’s the
idea. I don’t know just the ratio--I’m leaving it to Step and the
Shark. But it’ll be all right. The Shark’s a wizard for figuring, and
Step’s a cracker jack on the mechanical end!”
“Well, you’ve got to do the best you can with things,” remarked Step
complacently.
Sam glanced at the motor. “How’s the wreck working?” he inquired.
“Bully!” said Step.
“Pretty well,” was Poke’s verdict.
“You don’t agree very closely,” Sam commented.
“Oh, well, maybe she skips now and then,” Step admitted. “But I--we,
that is--we’ll have her humming like a top before long.”
“Yes, Step’ll attend to that part of it,” said Poke confidently.
The Shark appeared to be tiring of the discussion; for he turned to the
door. Reminded of the afternoon’s business, Sam stopped him.
“Lon’s all ready to take us out to the lake. We’ll pitch camp before
night.”
“All right! I’ll go along,” said the Shark readily.
“You, too, Poke?”
Poke and Step exchanged glances; then said the former, with a trace of
reluctance:
“Why--why, I guess so. Course we’ve got lots to do, but we want to hold
up our end with the rest of the club. So we’ll come along, and let the
Saracen wait a while.”
“The Saracen?” Sam repeated.
“Confound it, Poke! Can’t you keep anything to yourself?” Step cried
reproachfully.
“Oh, that just slipped out!” Poke said ruefully. “I didn’t mean to give
it away. But ‘Saracen’ is going to be the name of the machine. Kind
of appropriate, don’t you think? You know you always picture Saracens
skimming around over deserts and--er--er--over things generally. And
that’ll be the way we’ll do. Understand?”
“I do,” Sam assured him with all the gravity he could command.
Poke’s expression betrayed relief. “I thought you would--you’ve got
all-’round brains, Sam. The Shark, now--course he’s got brains, of a
sort--and mighty good ones of a sort they are--but while he’s a corker
at figuring, he can’t seem to rise to the--to the--well, to the romance
and poetry of a thing like this.”
The Shark shrugged. “I’d be stronger for this Saracen business, maybe,
if there was a desert or two handy.”
Sam was enjoying the conversation, but time was slipping away. He
joined the Shark by the door.
“You fellows’d better hurry up,” he said to Poke and Step. “Come over
to the house. Lon and the car will be waiting.”
“All right! We’ll come,” they answered together; and Sam, taking the
Shark’s arm, marched him off.