The night passed quickly to the tired trio in the cave.
Eddie was the first to wake. He rose, stretched himself, and went to
peer out of the cave mouth. He did not like to go out until Ernest
gave the word. Ernest and Dee slept on and on, and Eddie fumed, not
liking to disturb them. At last the pangs of hunger so beset him
that he shook Dee and then Ernest into wakefulness. Just as he
succeeded in persuading that last named person to open both eyes at
the same time and sit up the two Secret Service men appeared. They
had been thoughtful enough to bring some breakfast for all hands, and
as they themselves had driven from Louisville without stopping to
eat, they sat down in a circle near the mound of shale and consumed
innumerable sandwiches and hot coffee from the thermos bottles.
Breakfast over, the detectives carefully scooped the shale away from
the canvas cases containing the explosives. Lifting one of them,
with the greatest gentleness and care they opened it. Inside,
wrapped in rolls of cotton, were rows of little brass cylinders.
The sight of them seemed to excite Eddie. He started, stared and
pointing a shaking finger at them, managed to ask in a dry whisper:
“What are those?”
“Infernal machines!” said one of the detectives.
“What?” cried Eddie, still pointing.
“Sure!” said the detective. “The worst ever! Give that a tap and
see where we would be. Angels, every one of us!”
“Don’t joke!” cried Eddie, such agony in his voice that they all
looked at him in surprise.
“I am not joking, kid! It is true! What did you think they were??”
For reply, Eddie turned to Ernest and shook him violently by the arm.
“Take me home, Ern: take me home! Come on, I got to go right now!
Oh, don’t, don’t wait!” he begged.
“What ails you? They won’t go off if we are careful,” said Ernest.
“Oh, it’s not that! I have one of those things in my Sunday pants!
They are hanging up where Jack can get at them if he takes a notion.
He is always going through my pockets to find pennies. Oh, come on!
I will tell you as we go!”
“All right,” said Ernest. “Keep cool, youngster! They are all
asleep at this hour, and you know Jack is always the last one up.”
“Well, _I_ would like to know about this,” said the detective.
“I will tell you all I know in a word,” said Eddie, putting on his
coat. “Fat Bascom had it, and he brought it to Sunday School and I
gave him a nickel. I meant to pry the top off, because it wouldn’t
unscrew, and I was going to keep pen and pencils in it. It looked
sort of pretty and funny with those pointed ends like a torpedo. But
I was busy and left it in the pocket of my Sunday pants, and it is
where Jack can get it. And if he hasn’t been through ’em by this
time, he will do it any minute. Oh, come on, Ern!”
“Better go,” said the detective soberly.
They rushed for the Aviation Field, rolled the plane out of its
hangar, and were off.
The engine was not working right, and Ernest was obliged to coax it
along. Eddie, with a set and anguished face, stared ahead as though
he could pull the city towards them. It took them twenty-five
minutes to reach the landing field at Camp Taylor. Then Eddie,
leaping from the plane, dashed for the road. He threw himself at the
first automobile with such earnestness that they stopped for him. He
rode down silently, and when the car turned into Third Street, where
Eddie could look across the Park and see his home, his courage failed
him and for a fearful moment he closed his eyes, unable to look at
the wreck he felt sure was there. But when he forced his eyes to
scan the familiar scene, he found the scheme of things entire. The
house, his dear home, stood intact.
He leaped from the automobile, and with a fervent “Thank you!” raced
over the tennis courts, pushed through the bushes surrounding the
Park and leaping across the narrow pavement, burst open the door.
He could hear his mother in her room, and his father was in the
bath-room shaving. Eddie ran up the stairs three at a time, and
bolted into his own room. There in his own small bed, young Jack
slumbered peacefully. What a darling he was! Eddie’s heart filled
with manly tenderness and love for the small brother, and with a
racking sigh of relief he went over to the clothespress and felt
carefully in his pocket.
The cylinder was gone!
Eddie staggered back and with hands that commenced to shake pawed his
clothes over, looked on the floor among his shoes, and went through
the bureau. Then without knocking, without a salutation, he burst
into his mother’s room.
She was a pretty woman, dark and sparkling, and her black eyes grew
round and astonished as Eddie breezed in with a wild cry of: “Where
is it? Did you take that brass thing out of my pocket? Where is it?
Where is it?”
“Good gracious, Eddie, what a fuss! I don’t like you to burst in
like this. It is rude,” she said, beginning to coil her long, wavy
hair.
“Where is it, Mother? That round brass thing that was in my pocket?”
“Why, I took it,” said Mrs. Rowland. “Why not? It was sticking in
your pocket. I saw it when I brushed your clothes, and it was just
what I wanted to mend your father’s glove over. Its round end just
fitted the thumb.”
“Where is it now?” cried Eddie.
“I left it in my work basket,” said Mrs. Rowland. “If it is not
there now, I don’t know where it is.”
Eddie seized the basket and carefully dumped its contents on the bed.
“What’s the excitement?” said Mr. Rowland, coming in. “Eddie lost
something? No use being so noisy, Ed, no matter _what_ you have
lost.”
Eddie had been trying to get the infernal machine back without
frightening the family, but now he was stung into an explanation. He
talked as he felt through the socks, underwear, embroidery and uncut
materials that filled his mother’s basket.
“Well, it is an infernal machine, if you want to know!” he said with
a sob in his voice. “And it isn’t here!”
“Infernal machine! Infernal _joke_!” said Mr. Rowland, scolding.
“Talk sense, Eddie!”
“That’s just what it _is_,” said Eddie. “Some detectives and us just
found a whole case of them in a cave. They are the most powerful
machines that have ever been made. Oh, _where_ do you suppose that
is?”
“What were you doing with it in your pocket if it is an infernal
machine?” demanded Mrs. Rowland, looking through the pile of things
on the bed.
“I traded for it in Sunday School last Sunday. Gave Fat Bascom a
nickel for it. I meant to pry off the top and use it for pencils and
pens.”
“I suppose Jack has it,” said Mr. Rowland, forgetting the line of
lather still decorating his dark jaw. He went to Jack, and woke him
up. Jack objected, and was only made to sit up and talk by many
promises of ice-cream cones.
“Ess, me toot it! Ittle tin fing. Wanted it to teep marbles in, and
me touldn’t det de end off. And me was doin to hit it wif a tone,
and toot it out-doors.”
“Going to hit it with a stone!” groaned Eddie, shivering. “Well, you
didn’t anyhow, Jack, so where is it now?”
Jack dimpled and shrugged his shoulders.
“Done! All done!” he said.
“Gone where?” coaxed Eddie, but Jack, feeling that his information
had already brought in huge promises of reward, shrugged and dimpled
again, and was silent.
“Gone where?” begged Eddie. “Tell you what, Jack, if you show me
where you put that funny thing, I will buy you an ice-cream cone
every day for a week!”
At this glorious prospect Jack burst into tears.
“I tay it’s DONE!” he repeated. “Fatty Bastum buyed it for a penny.”
“Fatty Bascom bought it back!” cried Eddie. “I suppose he thought
that was a joke on me. My soul, dad, what will we do _now_?”
For answer, Mr. Rowland ran down to the telephone and sent in a
frantic call for Fatty Bascom’s house, only to find the telephone
“temporarily discontinued.” Mr. Rowland did not wait for his
necktie. He turned up the collar of his coat, cried, “Come along,
Ed!” and opened the garage where his powerful car waited.
Fatty had once, long ago, been a Confederate Place boy, but had moved
into the Highlands. Driving as fast as he could, Mr. Rowland crossed
the city and approached the Bascom place. Once more Eddie looked to
see a pile of racked and shattered timbers where a house had been.
The house was there, but no Fatty, although Eddie whistled and called
as they drove up.
Mrs. Bascom herself came to her door. She was scarcely taller than
Eddie, but smoothly fat as a little butter ball.
“Why, Mr. Rowland, how are you?” she exclaimed, shaking hands and
dragging them into the house. “And Eddie too! Come right out to the
dining-room. Mr. Bascom is just getting a taste of breakfast. I
declare that man doesn’t eat more than a sparrow! And early as this,
I know you have come off without your breakfast. Come right out and
join. There’s plenty, always! I tell Bascom you never know when a
friend or neighbor will drop in, and I always believe in being on the
right side.”
Mr. Rowland plunged into the monologue.
“We can’t stay, Mrs. Bascom. We are just on an errand,” but she
interrupted as she threw open the dining-room door and pushed them in.
“Simply nonsense! As if you can’t eat and talk at the same time!
Bascom, here’s somebody you will be glad to see.” She drew up a
couple of chairs and firmly sat her unwilling guests down as soon as
they had greeted Mr. Bascom. After shaking hands, that gentleman sat
down and picked up his fork.
“Mighty glad to have you come in,” said Mr. Bascom, cutting large
slices of beefsteak for each one, and piling delicate fried potatoes
beside them. “Seeing someone takes my mind off myself. Wife thinks
I don’t eat the way I should; don’t seem to relish things right.” He
took a large spoonful of orange marmalade, and poured thick cream in
his cup of coffee.
“No, I don’t relish the way I used to. Try those muffins, Rowland.
Take two! There’s only about ten bites in each one. I tell Mrs.
Bascom she don’t make them as thick as she used to.”
“Where--” commenced Eddie, but Mrs. Bascom interrupted. “You are an
early riser, Eddie, I will say! I do wish I could get Henry up like
this. I declare, it is all I can do to drag that boy out of bed. He
would sleep till noon if he could. And I do wish school hours could
be changed. I say when a child needs his sleep, the way Henry does,
he ought to have time to take it. Nothing like good food and rest
for children, Mr. Rowland?”
“Yes, and they can sure sleep and eat, these youngsters,” said Mr.
Bascom, helping himself to more fried potatoes.
“Well, they ought to,” said Mrs. Bascom, pouring quantities of thick
maple syrup over a muffin which she had loaded with butter for Eddie.
“Think how they have got to grow! No coffee, Eddie? Well, just you
drink some milk.”
“Can’t I go up and wake Fa--Henry up?” asked Eddie, finally stemming
the conversational torrent.
“Why, hon, he isn’t here,” said Mrs. Bascom. “He has gone to
Cincinnati to see a cousin. He’ll be back in a day or two. I
thought, and so did papa, that he looked run down; sort of peaked,
and we thought the change would do him good. My sister sets a real
good table. Not plain like ours, but things that would sort of tempt
him.”
“Well--er, he has a sort of pencil case of mine,” said Eddie, “and I
have got to have it.”
“A little brass thing, with sort of pointed ends?” asked Mrs. Bascom,
reaching for the muffin plate. “Let me get some hot ones, Mr.
Rowland.”
“Yes, that is it,” said Eddie, cheering up. “Perhaps it is up in his
bureau. I will look while you get the muffins, Mrs. Bascom.”
“Not a bit of good to look, sweetness!” said Mrs. Bascom, patting him
on the back. “Not a bit! I helped Henry pack, and he put it in his
suitcase. I remember he said he didn’t want to scratch it, because
he was going to make something or other of it, and his cousin has a
regular workroom, with a vise and carpenter’s bench and all.”
Mr. Rowland shook his head. Eddie instantly lost his appetite. Mr.
Rowland somehow got them away without more beefsteak and things, and
when they were in the car, said: “No use making them worry. We will
telephone Fat at his cousin’s.”
“We can’t,” wailed Eddie. “They have just moved into a new house,
and there is no telephone connection yet. Fatty told me the other
day. I know! Take me up to the camp, and I will get Ernest to fly
over to Cincinnati. We are not needed here. Oh, gosh, I suppose
there isn’t any Fatty by now! Somebody is going to swat or drop that
cylinder, and that’s going to be the end of them! Here’s Ernest
now,” he added as they swung round by the Aviation Field.
Rapidly he explained to Ernest, and before he had finished, the car
was in place, and Ernest was at the wheel. Waving a good-bye, and
calling “Explain to mother,” Eddie settled down and drew on his
goggles.