BUD MORGAN ON THE SCENT
“What’s our plan of campaign, Hugh?” asked Bud Morgan.
“I was just going to say,” remarked the scout master, “that if we
separated, and covered as broad a field as possible, the chances for
picking up some sort of clue would be all the better. In that way we
could agree to meet here, say in an hour or so, and compare notes. Then
if by good luck one of us managed to strike a warm scent we could lay
out a scheme for taking up the trail. What do you say to that, fellows?”
Both of the others admitted that what Hugh proposed would be the wisest
move. Doubtless, Blake would have been happier had Hugh decided to keep
him in his company; but, then, he was too proud to hint at such a thing.
Besides, he realized that the greater field they covered, just as Hugh
had said, the better would be their chances for picking up news.
So they separated, with the understanding that in about an hour from
that time they were to come together again near the tent of Captain
Barclay, so as to compare notes and decide on the next step.
Bud Morgan was more than eager to wander about the big, bustling camp.
There were a thousand interesting things he wanted to see for himself.
This was a golden opportunity which he meant to utilize to the utmost.
He had been yearning for just such a legacy of good luck; and it had
really come to him. That magical paper, signed by the general himself,
would allow him to move at will. If any sentinel challenged his right to
be amidst the tents of the assembled guardsmen representing the
sovereign power of the State, all he had to do was to flash that
document before his eyes, and the sight of the name signed at the end of
the pass would end the detention instantly.
So Bud started forth with high hopes. He really meant to do all that lay
in his power to assist poor Blake find his missing relative; but, then,
while thus engaged there was no reason that Bud could see why he should
not have a look-in at those things in which his heart were was bound up.
For a short while, then, he talked with some of the Battery K boys whom
he knew, and who were naturally delighted to see any face from the home
town.
Bud managed to show nice discretion. He was averse to telling the story
of Felix, and his silly quarrel with his rich uncle and guardian to
every one; and so, when by a few judicious questions, he found that
those with whom he chatted had no information to give him, he soon broke
away and resumed his wanderings.
In this fashion he soon exhausted the limited fund of information that
could be picked up among the artillerymen of Battery K. The result was
so meagre that Bud felt disgusted. He must branch out and seek other
fields. Far and wide he would continue his investigations, ask his
leading questions, and seek by every possible means in his power to get
a clue worth having.
By degrees, however, his ambition began to wane. He met with so little
success that he began to allow himself to grow slack in his efforts.
Hugh would be almost certain to unearth some clue, for he most always
did accomplish whatever he set out to perform. Then Bud was wild to
spend a little time with the Aviation Corps, for deep down in his boyish
heart he cherished an ambition to some day be an air pilot.
This would account for his fetching up in the distant section of the
camp where he had been told the aviation squad had their hangars. More
than half an hour had passed since parting from his chums, and Bud could
truly say that he had worked faithfully to unearth a few crumbs of
comfort for Blake.
“I deserve a little recreation,” he told himself. “All work and no play
makes Jack a dull boy. I may never get another such a fine chance to
talk with fellows of the aviation class.”
Having thus relieved his mind of any remorse he might have felt, Bud
hurried his steps, and before long found himself in the region of the
odd-looking hangars, or sheds, hastily constructed, in which several
aeroplanes rested when not in use.
He had met with little obstruction thus far. Several times a sentinel
had stopped him, acting under orders, but the sight of the magic paper
had always sufficed to cause the man with the bayonet and gun to wave
him along; so that by this time Bud was under the impression he could go
anywhere he pleased.
Arriving at the ground where the birdmen held forth, he found a number
of bronzed young fellows squatting around a fire, and swapping stories
of possible past experiences. As Bud came up and stood there, curious
glances were cast upon him. Perhaps most of them jumped to the
conclusion that he must be the representative of some important
newspaper, for Bud was a pretty husky sort of a fellow for his age; and
young blood is often sought after by the great metropolitan dailies.
So Bud presently dropped down, and sat there listening. He drank in all
he heard those aviators saying. One of them, it seemed, had been across
the sea, and taken part in some of the dangerous forays, when Allied
aeroplanes made daring raids on fortified towns or military
concentration camps in the rear of the enemy forces, and his
reminiscences of the thrilling scenes upon which he had gazed held Bud
spellbound.
Others in the little group had not been so fortunate in seeing actual
hostilities, but each man in turn narrated certain adventures that had
befallen him; for even in piping times of peace aviators meet with
perils calculated to make a stirring story.
One man in particular interested Bud. At the time he hardly knew why
this should be so, for they were all strangers to him. Afterwards he was
inclined to believe there must have been some sort of intuition about
it, causing him to listen to everything this air pilot was saying.
His name seemed to be Johnson, for Bud heard him called that several
times. The conversation had turned upon odd incidents connected with
meeting people under peculiar conditions, and as he listened Bud heard
Johnson saying:
“Queer how people bob up that you’d never expect to meet. Now, today
while we were on the road here from the station, with the truck carrying
our ’plane, I had a thing like that happen to me. Two years back it came
about that I was flying at county fairs down in Florida. I did it as a
means for making ready money, because I wanted to get hold of a new
model hydroaeroplane that I was wild to own. My companion in the Fair
venture was a fellow I never really liked, though he certainly had
plenty of grit, and knew a heap about this flying business.
“Well, we separated in the end, because I couldn’t stand for some of his
crooked ways. From that day to this I did not see him once; yet today,
when we passed a little old house on the road here from the railway
station, who should I see looking from the second-story window, and
staring at all the aviation squad moving along, but my former partner of
the Florida county fair flights. Which shows how small this old world
is, after all. Why, I wouldn’t have been any more surprised if I’d
landed on top of Mount Washington, and come face to face there with
Luther Gregory!”
Bud almost fell over, he received such a shock at hearing the aviator
calmly mention that name. Luther Gregory, the wild son of Uncle Reuben,
the very man whose scheming had caused the scouts all that trouble while
on the road to the mobilization camp—it came to Bud almost like an
inspiration that in this astonishing way he had struck a clue.
Through his brain chased a dozen brilliant thoughts. Why, if Luther
Gregory had really been the employer whose money had hired that clever
trickster in the flivver to do everything in his power to obstruct the
progress of Blake and his chums, didn’t it stand to reason that the
chief plotter must have come on the ground in order to have a hand in
the final attempt to keep Felix from making up with his uncle?
Bud wanted to shake hands with himself, he felt so tickled. For some
little time he sat there and communed with himself, laying out various
plans whereby he and Hugh and Blake might yet win the game that had
seemed to be going against them.
He was suddenly aroused by seeing Johnson getting on his feet, and
yawning, as if he felt sleepy, and thought of turning in, although
“taps” had not yet sounded.
Bud came to a quick determination. He must have a little chat with the
air pilot, and learn a few facts from him. In order to accomplish his
end it would be necessary for him to relate the story of Felix, but he
could bind the other to secrecy. So he also arose and followed the
aviator.
When a tap came on his shoulder, and Johnson turned to find himself
confronted by the boy, he may have noticed sitting near the fire,
listening, no doubt he felt a little curiosity as to why he had been
picked out for an interview.
“Guess you’ve selected the wrong man, young fellow,” he went on to say
with a jolly laugh, “if you’re expecting a thrilling yarn for your
paper. Better tackle Tom Sherlock, who’s seen exciting adventures over
the big drink. He can spin you a story that will make your readers’ hair
stand on end.”
“But I want to have a little chat with you, Mr. Johnson,” urged Bud. “I
would thank you to give me just a few minutes of your time. It is on a
matter that means a whole lot to a chum of mine. The queer part of it is
that the mention of Luke Gregory’s name by you is the whole cause of my
asking this favor.”
The aviator, naturally enough, was surprised.
“Well, you’ve managed to arouse my curiosity from the start, my boy!” he
exclaimed, heartily. “I’ll be only too glad to listen to anything you
may have to say. Come over here to my tent and sit down on a bench
there; we can talk better at our ease. Right from the beginning let me
say that if Luther Gregory has any share in your story, I’d wager it
isn’t going to be to his credit.”
“You hit the nail right on the head when you say that, Mr. Johnson!”
declared Bud, mentally hugging himself with delight over the wonderful
success that had come his way.
He started in by telling how he and Hugh had been trying to find some
reasonable excuse for visiting the mobilization camp, when Blake came
along and told about the unfortunate quarrel between Felix and his
uncle. Then Bud went on to relate how they had started for the camp in
the old car. Step by step he narrated the difficulties they had to
surmount, and how they felt positive most of their troubles came through
the plotting of the man in the flivver, and who had been seen talking in
a mysterious fashion with Luther Gregory in Oakvale.
It was an altogether thrilling story, and the aviator listened with rapt
attention until Bud had come down to the point where he heard him
mention that name of Uncle Reuben’s profligate son, and tell how he had
actually seen him close to the border of the camp.
“All I want you to tell me, Mr. Lawrence,” Bud wound up with, “is the
location of that little old house where Luther Gregory, you say, was
looking out of the second story window as your Aviation Corps passed
this afternoon. Don’t you see, if they have managed somehow to sneak
Felix out of camp, it stands to reason he would be taken to that place,
and kept hidden for twenty-four hours or so, until the time limit was
past. Oh! please tell me, so I can carry the news to my chums, who will
be tickled half to death to hear it.”
The air pilot saw the point, and proceeded forthwith to enter into such
explanations that Bud felt sure he could not miss finding the place; and
after that he hastened to break away, being fairly wild to see Hugh, and
tell him the great news.