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BOY SCOUTS WITH JOFFRE
_OR IN THE TRENCHES IN BELGIUM_
_By_
CAPT. V. T. SHERMAN
Author of
THE WAR ZONE
SCOUTING THE BALKANS IN A MOTOR BOAT
[Illustration]
Chicago M. A. DONOHUE & CO.
COPYRIGHT 1912.
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Made in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
A Mysterious Hot Box 7
Secret Service Duty 19
Jimmie Stops a Gang 31
Fire and Its Result 41
Jimmie Finds a Spy 54
A Murderous Act 66
Greeted With Bullets 78
Imperiled in a Trap 90
A Mysterious Warning 102
Boy Scouts for Targets 114
A Boy Scout Rescuer 126
At the War Office 138
Left to Starve 150
The Gray Eagle Damaged 162
A Battle in the Air 174
A Journey With Joffre 187
The Rat Repulsed 199
An Interrupted Race 211
Captured and Under Fire 223
Lost Above the Lines 235
Coffee With the Kaiser 247
Thrown From the Clouds 259
A Mysterious Door 271
Under the Castle 284
The Musketeer's Mistake 296
Boy Scouts in Belgium;
or,
Under Fire in Flanders
CHAPTER I.
A Mysterious Hot Box.
On a warm day in October three motorcyclists were speeding over Long
Island roads toward New York City. One of the group was apparently
setting the pace for his fellows. He was at least a hundred yards in
the lead. With mufflers deadening perfectly the clamor of their engines
the riders sped across the country like fleeting ghosts with never a
sound to indicate their presence.
All three riders appeared to be about eighteen years old and were
dressed in the well-known khaki uniform of the Boy Scouts of America.
Could one have examined closely the badges upon their sleeves he would
have discovered that two of the boys were members of the Black Bear
Patrol of New York City. The third member of the group, a lad slightly
smaller in stature than his comrades and with a very freckled face and
very red hair, was a member of the Wolf Patrol of the same city. A
Black Bear was on the leading machine that seemed to be making the pace.
Approaching the outskirts of a village the leader's speed perceptibly
slackened and his machine veered abruptly from side to side of the
roadway. He seemed in imminent peril of dashing into a nearby row of
telephone poles. Instantly the others slackened speed.
"What's up, Harry?" inquired he of the red hair.
"Crossing cop, maybe!"
"Nix on the cop!"
"When Jack's in trouble, slow up!"
Without a moment's delay both boys shut off power and applied brakes,
bringing their machines to a standstill beside their comrade.
Dismounting hurriedly the riders approached their friend.
"What's the trouble, Jack?" inquired the red-headed lad. Then without
waiting for an answer he wrinkled his freckled nose in disgust and
stepped back with loud sniffs of displeasure.
"You needn't tell me; I know," he cried. "Somebody tried to take
lessons in cooking and burned the water before it could boil!"
Both his comrades laughed at Jimmie's remark. Jack, however, turned
again to an examination of his machine with a worried look on his face.
Touching the parts gingerly he went carefully over the engine.
"Whew, Jack," spoke up the third boy, "you're surely some loud smeller!
What did you run over and why did you do it?"
"I know!" cried Jimmie excitedly. "He's got a hot box!"
"Sure?" inquired Jack teasingly.
"Hope I never see the back of my neck!" declared Jimmie.
"Guess I know now what that freight train conductor out in Montana
meant when he spoke of a 'stinker,'" Harry mused.
"But how did you get it?" persisted Jimmie.
"Boys, if you want to know the truth, I think some one was unkind
enough to wish this onto me!" soberly declared Jack.
"You don't mean it!" gasped Harry with a startled look.
"I do! When did we overhaul these motorcycles?"
"Yesterday. Each boy worked on his own machine, and I know I did a
good job on mine. It runs like a scared rabbit!"
"All did good jobs! Mine, too, was in perfect shape. But look at that
main crank bearing now! It's positively frozen!"
"Ho! Ho!" jeered Jimmie. "Frozen! Why, it's so hot you daren't even
touch it! Just see it frying grease this minute!"
"That's the correct term for a bearing that gets so hot it won't let
the shaft or axle turn. Maybe you didn't know that!"
"Well, Great Jumpin' Catfishes!" gasped Jimmie.
"It's a good thing Ned isn't here to listen to that slang!" declared
Harry. "As leader of the Wolf Patrol, Ned objects to slang!"
"Well, if 'Catfishes' is any more slang than 'Frozen Hot Boxes,'"
stoutly decided Jimmie, "I'll quit for keeps. Besides," he continued,
"it's a good thing Ned isn't here or he'd laugh at us for a lot of
amateurs who don't know how to run a motorcycle yet. I guess 'Yes'!"
"Look here!" cried Jack in an excited voice. Then instantly glancing
about as if afraid of being overheard he continued in a lower tone:
"This looks to me like a sure case of someone's having planned that we
should have trouble. Feel the grit in that oil cup!"
"Let me see," urged Jimmie, stepping forward to bend over the
machine for a careful exploration of the hot oil cup. Presently he
straightened, and with wide open eyes glanced in wonderment toward his
comrades as he extended a greasy forefinger for examination.
"That's emery!" he choked. "Emery will cut any bearing!"
"Emery!" echoed the two Black Bears in chorus.
"Yes, sir, emery! Some one must have put it there meaning to bring
disaster to us. Tell you what," Jimmie went on hurriedly in a hushed
voice, "it looks as if somebody had it in for us and we are due to go
through the old story of having difficulties just before we reach a
stage of success! Someone's trying to delay the Grey Eagle!"
"Let's not mind that just now," urged Jack, "the thing to do is to get
this machine off the road and then hasten as fast as we can to the
Black Bear Club Rooms to meet Ned. It's only two or three blocks to
French Pierre's machine shop. One of you can tow me over there and
we'll leave all three machines with him for the day at least."
"Right-O!" answered Jimmie springing to his motorcycle and starting the
engine. "I'll tow you as fast as you can ride!"
In a few moments the three boys were again under way, but this time
their progress was decidedly slower. Their course was laid toward a
portion of the village devoted to factories. Here was located the
machine and repair shop of a Frenchman whom the boys knew well. He had
assisted them with his expert knowledge in many of their experiments,
and the boys regarded him as a friend who could be safely trusted.
While the boys are proceeding on their errand it may be well to make
a more careful observation of them. To those of our readers who have
had the pleasure of following the adventures of the lads as related
in previous volumes of this series, no introduction is necessary. For
the benefit of those who have not become acquainted with the work and
play of our Boy Scout friends a word of explanation may not be out
of place at this time. Their adventures in the States, in Alaska, in
the Philippines, in China, in Mexico, were thrilling in the extreme
and gave many situations of peril from which only the most energetic
efforts on the part of the boys themselves brought safety.
Jimmie McGraw, the lad with the red hair and freckles, had been a
Bowery newsboy in New York until he had fallen under the observation of
Ned Nestor, a well-known member of the Boy Scouts of America. He was
of slight build, and though of about the same age as the other lads,
was somewhat shorter. His active manner, quick wit and rash boldness
in times of danger, coupled with a keen perception and an ability to
correctly weigh values, more than made up for any apparent lack in the
matter of size. Wise beyond his years, Jimmie always proved a welcome
member of any party whether on business or pleasure bent.
Jack Bosworth, who had just suffered the disablement of his motorcycle,
was the son of a well-known New York capitalist and corporation lawyer.
Like Jimmie, he was exceedingly active. A strict observance of the
"setting-up" exercises, diet and health regulations such as had been
insisted upon by Ned Nestor had developed in Jack, as well as the
other lads, a wonderful endurance. He possessed a skill in athletics
that stood him well in hand when occasion required feats of endurance
or agility that might well have taxed the ability of many men older
or of greater physical proportions. Jack's dark complexion contrasted
strongly with Jimmie's ruddy face and wealth of auburn hair, yet the
two lads were warm friends despite their difference in appearance.
Harry Stevens, the son of a prominent automobile manufacturer, was the
third of this trio of travelers. His marked ability along mechanical
lines had been given full play by his father. Harry's ambition was to
produce an engine that would be suitable for use in air craft and that
would excel anything heretofore known. How well he and his comrades had
succeeded we shall presently learn.
Just now the three lads were hastening to New York to meet at the club
rooms of the Black Bear Patrol their chum Ned Nestor, who had summoned
them by telegraph from their stopping place on Long Island.
For purposes of greater seclusion during their experiments a hangar
had been constructed on some vacant property owned by Jack Bosworth's
father. In addition to being out of the regular line of travel the
place afforded the further advantage of being within easy reach of a
railroad as well as being near the beach of Long Island Sound. Here Ned
and his friends had worked industriously for several weeks constructing
an aeroplane along lines conceived by the boys themselves.
On this particular day Jimmie, Jack and Harry had been making the
final adjustments on the frame and planes of the new air craft when
a message had come over a "pony" wire from the nearby railroad
station. Wonderingly, but unhesitatingly the boys had at once dropped
their tasks and, at a suggestion from Jack, had chosen to use their
motorcycles rather than wait for the next train. A watchman whose
services in the past had been invaluable had been left in charge of
the hangar and its precious contents. Their start had been without
incident, and it was not until they approached the village a few miles
from the hangar that they experienced any difficulty. Apparently the
run would be a quick one.
At the village, however, Jack's mount had, indeed, developed a "hot
box" which effectually prevented operating the machine.
In spite of Jimmie's threat to tow Jack's disabled machine at a rapid
pace he was using a great deal of care and was running slowly. The boys
had not proceeded far when Jack called out:
"Cut across lots, Jimmie! Go through the old foundry yards. It'll save
nearly two blocks of travel!"
Jimmie's only reply was to nod his head. At the next street
intersection he steered his motorcycle toward a foot path which led
diagonally across a vacant lot formerly used by a foundry. A thick
screen of shrubbery and bushes growing near the walk hid the lot from
the view of anyone on the street. Not until they had passed through
the opening in the bushes did the boys observe that a group of young
fellows of about their own age were engaged in a game of ball on the
vacant lot. These lads seemed to be rather low characters.
It was too late to turn back, however, so Jimmie gave a discordant
squawk of his horn and held to the path, nearly colliding with a base
runner who was sliding for second. Shouts of wrath and execration
rose from the throats of the roughly dressed crowd of players and
spectators. In an instant fists were being shaken toward the intruders,
while chunks of cinder were wrenched from the ground and hurled in
the direction of the cyclists. Coarse threats and foul language were
mingled freely with appellations of scorn and hatred.
"Get out of here, you're buttin' into a game!" shouted one.
"Soak the snobs!" cried another, brandishing the bat he held.
"Get 'em, fellers!" yelled a lad, hurling a piece of cinder with poor
aim. "Everybody soak 'em good and hard!"
One lad more venturesome than the others hurled a bat at the machines,
now almost clear of the crowd. Jimmie had opened the muffler and turned
on the power. Mingled with the roar of the exhaust came a sharp musical
twanging that told of broken spokes. The bat had reached Jimmie's rear
wheel, but fortunately the machine did not collapse under the now
uneven strain. In another minute they would be clear.
"Don't let 'em get away!" yelled one of the toughs, drawing a revolver.
"Don't let 'em get away! Stop the snobs!"
Seeing that the machines were winning their way to safety, the excited
youth pulled the trigger again and again.