PUG KENNEDY
“Say, look here!” blustered Bob, when the conductor had passed on.
“Just because I ask about the next station doesn’t mean that I want to
eat _all_ the while.”
“You aren’t eating _all_ the while,” said Ned. “This is only the second
in a while since we started.”
“Well, I’m hungry!” declared the stout lad. “Maybe you are, too, only
you’re too proud to admit it.”
“I’m not!” declared Jerry. “Chunky, I second your motion, and I wish my
jaws were in motion right now. I’ll be with you when the crullers nest
again!” he chanted.
“Who said pie?” demanded a voice at the end of the car.
“That bunch up in the middle,” answered another, indicating the motor
boys.
“Is there any chance for a feed?” came a veritable howl from some
hungry lad. “Tell me, oh, tell me, I implore!”
“Next stop,” answered Jerry. “That is,” and he turned to the sergeant
in charge, “unless you have some rations concealed somewhere about your
person,” and he laughed.
“Not a ration,” was the answer. “I suppose there ought to have been
some arrangement made for feeding you boys on the way, but there is
such a rush that it has been overlooked. However, if you are short of
change----”
“Oh, we’ve got the _money_! All we want is _time_ to eat!” came the cry.
“I’ll see to that, then,” said Sergeant Mandell. “If necessary I’ll
have the conductor hold the train for a minute or two, until you can
raid the lunch counter. But mind! everything must be paid for, as I am
responsible.”
Ned, Bob, and Jerry, by common consent, were detailed into a foraging
party on behalf of some of their comrades and a common fund was made up
with which to purchase what food could be found. Then the boys eagerly
waited for the train to arrive at the station where there was a lunch
counter.
And such a rush as there was when the place was announced! The three
motor boys, as treasurers, were accompanied to the counter by a mob of
the boys who for themselves or for companions had orders for everything
in sight.
“I want apple pie!”
“Cherry for mine!”
“Give me peach!”
“What’s the matter with the ‘peachy’ girl behind the counter?” asked
some one, and there were many glances of warm but respectful admiration
cast at the young girl behind the piles of food on the marble shelf.
“Sandwiches--all you got!” demanded Jerry.
“And some crullers, if you haven’t enough pie!” added Bob. “I want a
_lot_ of crullers. You can put ’em in your pocket!” he confided to Ned.
“Put ’em in your pocket? Man, dear! I’m going to put _mine_ in my
_stomach_!”
“Yes, I know. So’m I--most of ’em,” went on Chunky. “But you can stow
away some in your pockets to eat when you get hungry again. They don’t
get as mushy as pie.”
“You’re the limit!” Ned told his chum. “You haven’t had a feed yet, and
you’re thinking of the next one. But go to it! I never felt so hungry
in my life.” So Bob went to it, to the extent of stuffing his pockets
with crullers, and carrying away as much else as he could in his hands.
The girl at the lunch counter would have been swamped, but Jerry
organized a sort of helping corps, and dealt out the food to his fellow
recruits, making payment in due course, until the counter looked as
fields do after a visit from the locusts.
Back to the car, only just in time, rushed the boys, bearing things
to eat to those of their comrades who had remained in their seats, for
some were detailed to remain as a sort of guard over the luggage.
“Ah! This is something like!” exclaimed Bob, as he sat in his seat when
the train had again started, holding a sandwich in each hand, while his
pockets bulged suspiciously.
“You seem pretty well provided for,” remarked Ned to his stout chum, as
the three motor boys sat together again.
“Well, I don’t aim to starve if I can help it,” retorted Bob, as he
munched away.
“You must weigh five or six pounds more,” added Jerry, with a glance at
Bob’s pockets. “That’s dangerous business, old man!”
“What?” asked Bob, pausing half-way to a bite of his sandwich.
“Putting on weight like that. You must remember that you’re not more
than just tall enough to break in under the military requirements, and
if you are too heavy for your height--out you go.”
“You can’t take away my appetite!” exclaimed Bob, but he did not see
Ned wink at Jerry and motion with his head toward the bulging pockets
of the stout lad.
For a time there was a merry scene in the car, where the prospective
soldiers were riding. Hungry appetites were being appeased, and this
caused a line of small talk, which had rather died away after the
first part of the journey.
Many of the lads were friends, and a number knew the motor boys, having
lived in Cresville. Others were from surrounding towns, and some of
them Ned, Bob, and Jerry knew, or had heard about. Others were total
strangers, and one or two seemed quite alone. These had come from small
villages, where not more than one or two had volunteered. One such lad,
who gave his name as Harry Blake, the motor boys made friends with, and
shared their food with him, as he had not seen fit, for some reason or
other, to get off and provide himself.
“Have you any particular branch of the service in view?” asked Jerry of
Harry, as he saw Ned and Bob jointly looking at a paper.
“I did hope to get in the aviation corps, but they tell me it’s pretty
hard.”
“Hard to get in?”
“Well, yes, and hard to learn the rudiments of the game.”
“Oh, no, that isn’t exactly so,” Jerry answered. “Of course I don’t
know much about military aeroplanes, but my friends and I have been
operating airships for some time. It’s comparatively easy, once you get
over the natural fear. Though of course becoming an expert is another
matter. I think you could soon learn. You look as though you were
cool-headed.”
“No, I don’t get excited easily, but I don’t know beans about an
airship. I’ve read a little; but the more I read the more I get
confused. I’d like to understand the principle.”
“Perhaps I can help you,” Jerry said. “I’ve got a book here on
aeroplanes, and my friends and I have helped build some. I can give you
a little book-knowledge for a starter.”
“I wish you would,” pleaded Harry, and then he and Jerry plunged into a
subject that interested them both.
Meanwhile the train rushed on, carrying the recruits nearer to the
training camp, or rather, to the city where they would be given a more
careful examination and separated into units, to be divided among the
various cantonments where Uncle Sam was getting his new armies ready to
face the Kaiser’s veterans.
Jerry had just finished telling Harry something about the way in which
the double rudders controlled an airship--one guiding it up or down,
and the other to left or right, when there came a howl from Bob--a
veritable wail of anguish.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ned, who had moved out of the seat beside
his stout chum, and was sitting back of him. “Did you bite your
tongue?”
“Bite my tongue? Come on! You know better than that. Hand ’em over!”
and Bob, extending his fist, shook it under Ned’s nose.
“Hand what over? What do you mean? If you mean these magazines, I’ve
just started ’em. Besides, they’re mine!”
“No, I don’t mean the magazines, and you know it!” declared Bob.
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what you do mean. What’s the row, anyhow?”
“My crullers!” exclaimed Bob. “You snitched ’em out of my pocket when
you were sitting in the same seat with me. Come on; a joke’s a joke,
and I don’t mind if you keep one for yourself, and another for Jerry.
But hand over the rest!”
“The rest of what?” asked Ned, innocently enough.
“Oh, quit! You know! My crullers. I bought ’em to eat when I got
hungry, and now they’re gone,” and in proof Bob stood up and turned
both coat pockets inside out.
“Yes, I see they’re empty,” observed Ned coolly. “But I haven’t got
’em!”
“You have so!”
“Indeed I haven’t. Search me!” and Ned, with an air of injured
innocence, stood up and extended his arms at either side, an invitation
for Bob to feel in his pockets. It was an invitation which the
stout youth did not ignore, and he felt about Ned’s clothes with
thoroughness, and convinced himself that the crullers were, as Ned had
declared, not on his person.
“Well, you know where they are!” declared Bob.
“No, I don’t!”
“Jerry does, then!”
“What’s that?” asked the tall lad, looking up from his book on
aeroplanes, which he and his new acquaintance were going over.
Bob explained, and Jerry’s denial was such that the stout lad felt
inclined to accept it as final. Especially as he remembered that Jerry
had not been near him since the purchase of the food at the lunch
counter.
“Well, somebody’s got my crullers and I’m going to get ’em back!”
exclaimed Bob. “I paid for ’em and I want ’em. A joke’s a joke, but
this is too much! Shell out, fellows!” and he looked around at those
nearest him.
The truth of the matter was that Ned had slyly slipped the bags of
crullers out of the two side pockets of Bob’s coat, and had passed
them, surreptitiously to two fellow conspirators. And then, as is usual
in such cases, the crullers had gone from hand to hand until, reaching
the far end of the car, they had been quickly eaten.
But Bob did not give up. Satisfied that Ned did not have the pastry on
his person, Bob set about a search for it. He walked down the aisle,
looking in various seats, and poking his fingers in the pockets of
those he knew, until he came to the end of the car.
In one of the seats sat a heavily-built youth, whose face was not of a
prepossessing type. He had a sort of bulldog air about him, as though
“spoiling for a fight,” and he had had little to say to the other
recruits.
Bob, looking at the coat of this lad, as the garment was spread out
over the unoccupied half of a seat, made a grab for something in one of
the pockets, at the same time crying:
“Here they are! I knew you’d snitched ’em!” and he pulled out a bag,
and drew therefrom a cruller.
The lad in the seat turned quickly from looking out the window, and,
without a moment’s hesitation, sent his fist into Bob’s face.
“Maybe that’ll teach you to let Pug Kennedy’s things alone!” he
growled.