THE WAR-CALL
“Well, I don’t know that I like this,” murmured Fred Winter, glancing
after the fast-departing automobile. “Awful nervy of those chaps to run
off that way, eh, Somers?”
“I can’t blame George very much,” laughed Bob. “Pierre seems in need of
a good lesson.”
“And what a perfect night for a joy-ride,” sighed Dave.
“Almost wish we’d gone along with ’em,” added Tom. Then, as his ears
suddenly caught the sound of distant voices, he added: “Let’s catch up
with those cheeky prep-school boys. Guess they know the way. Mighty
easy to get twisted up in this tangle.”
A network of fairy lights and shadows now streaked the ground and tree
trunks, and here and there a rock shone strangely distinct. Each moment
new vistas of weird beauty opened out before them.
“If there were any such things as woodland sprites this would be just
the place for ’em,” said Fred, as he surveyed the scene. “Ah, I see
those chaps now.”
The group had come to a halt in a small clearing, and the house-boat
boys soon realized that they were in no hurry to leave. Bill Stiles and
Roy Pinger were having another animated discussion.
“Hello!” called Bob Somers.
Conversation stopped, and the boys, evidently taken by surprise,
awaited their approach.
“Why, say, you’re the chaps we saw on the road,” remarked Stiles, as
the four came up. “Where are the other two Bills? There were six of
you, I thought. Whiz--is it to Nyack they go? Did you see the chaffer?”
“Oh, no,” laughed Bob, “not yet.”
“I’m awfully glad that chap gave them the slip; don’t blame him for
keeping out of sight for a while. Say, I’d like to see that house-boat
of yours.”
“We don’t even charge for looking at it.”
“Come ahead, Pinger; toddle,” said Bill Stiles.
“My legs are too tired,” grumbled Roy, seating himself on a stump.
“Good thing we got grub in that farmhouse about ten miles back.”
In a few minutes Bob and his friends learned that the names of the
other students were Grigsby, Cole, Dale and Andrews.
As they lolled around, the boys told him about their annual motor boat
trip, and how on this occasion they had felt it their duty to look
after the “poor Thornton chaps.”
“You’ll see ’em,” remarked Bill Stiles, “and meet a mighty cheeky
fellow--Lon Bates is his name. Ready to skip now, Pinger?”
“Not yet,” answered Roy. “The charm of this moonlit scene holds me in
its spell.”
“You mustn’t mind him,” said Stiles, with a laugh. “He’s been bitten by
the writing bug, and practices on us; but his legs are weak.”
Many minutes passed and the boys still lingered, until a series of
yells suddenly brought them to their feet.
“Those Thornton chaps, as sure as you live!” cried Roy Pinger,
excitedly. “Listen!”
“Yelling again!” cried Stiles. “Wonder if anything’s up? We’ll soon
find out.”
The way Roy Pinger’s legs immediately gained strength was quite
remarkable. He quickly took the lead, and the others crashed after him,
the shouts coming again serving to guide them in the right direction.
It was a long, hard tug, and all the boys were breathing heavily when
they rushed out on the shore. Some distance away, they saw a group of
shadowy figures surrounding one of the motor boats.
Bob Somers uttered an exclamation, and so did the others, for a single
glance told them that the “Gray Gull” was not at her moorings; then, as
a faint, but steady chug-chug broke upon their ears, all looked out on
the river.
“Well, that’s another queer trick,” murmured Dave, puffing hard.
“Sugar! This is a night of surprises, all right.”
But Bob Somers and the others were now far in the lead, and all his
breath and endurance were needed to keep from being left behind.
As the Ripley boys neared the others, they uttered several yells, and
the half-defiant calls of the Thornton boys, like an echo, floated back.
The party came to a halt just as the motor boat was slowly forging out
into the river.
“What’s up with you fellows?” yelled Lon Bates, from the “Reindeer,”
his tone indicating great astonishment.
“Gee whiz!” called Ralph Chickers. “Where did you chaps pick up that
bunch? Are you fellows doing a Marathon?”
But Stiles made no answer to these questions. A peculiar light came
into his eyes, as he turned quickly toward Roy Pinger.
“There’s that chaffer in the boat, sure as you live!” he exclaimed.
“I see him,” said Roy.
“And that must be George Clayton’s guardian,” chimed in Fred Winter,
excitedly, as he caught a glimpse of the Colonel’s military figure in
the bow.
“H’m; and we thought the chauffeur had come alone,” murmured Bob.
“Hurry up!” cried Stiles. “The ‘Dart’s’ a faster boat than theirs;
we’ll find out what those duffers are up to.”
“You bet we will!” yelled Roy. “Quick, you chaps!”
Sarcastic calls came from the Thornton crowd as the “Reindeer” drew
rapidly away.
“Good-bye, little boys,” came in Bates’ loud voice. “So sorry to leave
you.”
“Oh, you won’t leave us, even if we have a big crowd aboard,” yelled
Bill Stiles. “Don’t worry.”
With a rush, the lads made for the “Dart,” and Fred Winter, who was as
excited as he ever got to be, tumbled in last.
“Up with the anchor,” commanded Stiles, tersely. “Fall all over
yourself, Jim Dale,” he added, as the latter, in an effort to be of
some assistance, tripped ingloriously.
“This is great sport, eh, my four Bills?”
Stiles gave the fly-wheel several quick revolutions; the engine
responded almost instantly, and the “Dart” glided ahead. Soon, under
full power, it was hastening after the “Reindeer.”
The moon shone from a cloudless sky, and a thousand sparkling ripples
shot from the dark gray water. The distant shores were lost in haze,
while the line of woods close at hand stood out in patches of
impenetrable shadows and silvery lights.
With her throbbing engine sending forth a steady stream of pulsations,
the “Dart” cut swiftly through the water. It was exhilarating sport,
and, as Bob Somers leaned back, he thoroughly enjoyed the easy, gliding
motion.
Far ahead, but a mere, uncertain patch of dark with two tiny specks of
light, was the “Gray Gull.”
“I can’t understand it,” murmured Fred, in perplexity. “Wonder why
those chaps put off; and what in the dickens George’s guardian is
chasing them for?”
“We’ll soon know,” laughed Bob.
The faces of the Ripley boys shone with excitement, for this was a
splendid opportunity to have some fun with their rivals.
“Those foolish Thornton chaps have been getting altogether too fresh
lately,” commented Bill Stiles. “To-night, the Ripley seniors will
teach ’em another lesson.”
“And one they won’t forget in a hurry,” chimed in Roy Pinger, bubbling
over with glee. “Bates will think his old ‘Reindeer’ is moving
backward.”
“That Colonel and the chaffer want to get on your house-boat, my four
Bills,” remarked Stiles, presently. “And our job----”
“Is to show the Thornton chaps they can’t put him there,” laughed Sam
Grigsby. “We’re gaining on ’em fast.”
“Only a few minutes more,” breathed Roy Pinger. “Keep her a bit
out, Stiles--that’s it--steady! Remember, you chaps, that Ripley’s
reputation is at stake.”
“My eye! Don’t fear--we’re not going to forget it,” grinned Harry Cole.
Steadily the swifter “Dart” gained on its rival. Already the dark forms
of the “Reindeer’s” crew began to grow more distinct.
A loud, long and sarcastic call came over the intervening space. Lon
Bates had a tremendous voice, and knew how to use it.
A rousing answer was immediately returned. Then, with eager eyes, the
boys watched the space between the motor boats slowly lessening.
“We’re doing it now,” cried Bill Stiles, gleefully. “Get ready,
fellows.”
“I say,” put in Fred Winter, nervously, “aren’t you chaps getting kind
of reckless?”
“Wait and see, Bill number three,” said Stiles, dryly.
“Can you swim?” asked Roy Pinger, with a very wide grin.
“Of course,” said Fred, “but I don’t want to;” and he took off his
glasses and looked apprehensively at the choppy little waves flowing
swiftly by.
“Better get ready for anything,” counseled Harry Cole.
“For the fun will begin in a few minutes,” added Grigsby. “Sound the
war-call, Andrews--won’t be the first time they’ve heard it.”
Owen Andrews, a tall, lanky lad, with a shock of sandy hair sweeping
across his forehead, thrust his hand into a locker and drew forth a
very long tin horn.
“Signal number three,” he remarked, solemnly, “meaning no quarter, eh,
cap?”
“That’s it,” grinned Bill Stiles. “Let ’er go!”
Andrews placed the tin horn to his lips; immediately there followed an
ear-splitting blast which fairly made Fred Winter jump to his feet.
He had never known that a tin horn could be made to produce such a
variety of unearthly sounds; and when Andrews, quite red in the face
from his exertions, took it from his lips, he gave a sigh of relief.
“Did yourself proud that time,” commented Bill Stiles. “Finish it.”
And Andrews did. A perfect din again floated over the air; and then the
sounder of war-calls sank back quite exhausted.
Before the last echoes had ceased, a series of tremendous yells came
from the Thorntons. They rose in a crescendo and ended in a medley of
long-drawn-out groans.
“The correct answer to signal number three,” remarked Stiles, with
satisfaction. “But say, aren’t those fellows getting cheeky, though?”
The “Reindeer” was now rapidly approaching the house-boat, which had
stopped its engine; and now the swift-flying “Dart” was so close to its
rival that the faces of the boys could be clearly seen.
“Stop your engine!” commanded Stiles, fiercely.
“Stop nothing!” yelled Lon Bates, defiantly. “Keep off!”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Yes! And this is our answer,” and again the war-call of the Thorntons
broke forth.
Stiles smiled grimly, but made no response.
Gradually the “Dart” drew abreast, and, as the two motor boats
raced side by side, Colonel Ellison and his chauffeur looked on in
astonishment.
“Keep that boat away!” commanded the former, half rising in his seat.
“Ma foi, yes; it is one grand risk,” chimed in Pierre, with fear in his
tone.
“Then make him stop his own engine!” shouted Bill Stiles. And he
actually changed his course, so that the prow of the “Dart” began to
swing slowly in toward the “Reindeer.”
The utter abandon and recklessness of the Ripley students brought forth
a storm of stern protests from the now really alarmed Colonel.
“Look out!” he called; “you’ll be into us in another moment--look out!”
But Bill Stiles paid no heed to this warning. The “Gray Gull” was now
but a short distance away, and both boats were headed directly toward
it.
“What are you trying to do, you idiots?” yelled Lon Bates, alarmed and
angry.
“Swing around, if you don’t like it; quick, now!”
“Great Cæsar!” groaned Fred Winter. “These reckless chaps will have us
all in the water.”
“I insist--shut down your engine!” roared the Colonel, and, with an
angry gesture, he reached over, as if to operate the lever himself.
Boiling over with anger, and seeing that his rivals had all the
advantage, the captain of the “Reindeer” was forced to yield. The
pounding of the motor suddenly ceased; he changed his course with an
abruptness that sent Colonel Ellison lurching back in his seat.
As he did so, the Ripley boys gave a tremendous yell of triumph, and
their war-call again sounded over the Hudson.
Then the “Dart” shot swiftly across the “Reindeer’s” bow.