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The Boy Scouts of the Air on Lost Island
BY GORDON STUART
CONTENTS
I OVER THE DAM
II A HOPELESS SEARCH
III LOST ISLAND
IV MORE THRILLS
V A STARTLING CLEW
VI TO THE RESCUE!
VII THE FLYING EAGLE SCOUTS
VIII A VOYAGE IN THE DARK
IX A RESCUE THAT FAILED
X "TO-MORROW IS THE DAY!"
XI A MID-AIR MIRACLE
XII AN EMPTY RIFLE SHELL
XIII THE GAME BEGINS
XIV PATCHING THE "SKYROCKET"
XV A WILD NIGHT
XVI TRICKED AGAIN!
XVII THE BIG PLAY
XVIII A CLOSE FINISH
The Boy Scouts of the Air on Lost Island
CHAPTER I
OVER THE DAM
Three boys stood impatiently kicking the dew off the tall grass in
Ring's back yard, only pausing from their scanning of the beclouded,
dawn-hinting sky to peer through the lightening dusk toward the clump
of cedars that hid the Fulton house.
"He's not up yet, or there'd be a light showing," grumbled the short,
stocky one of the three.
"Humph--it's so late now he wouldn't be needing a light. Tod never
failed us yet, Frank, and he told me last night that he'd be right on
deck."
"We'd ought to have gone down right off, Jerry, when we saw he wasn't
here. Frank and I would have stopped off for him, only we was so sure
he'd be the first one here--especially when you two were elected to dig
the worms."
"We dug the worms last night--a lard pail half full--down back of his
cabbage patch. And while we were sitting on the porch along comes his
father--you know how absent-minded he is--and reaches down into the
bucket and says, 'Guess I'll help myself to some of your berries,
boys.'"
"Bet you that's why Tod isn't here, then."
"Why, Frank Ellery, seventh son of a seventh son? Coming so early in
the morning, your short-circuit brain shockers make us ordinary folks
dizzy. This double-action----"
"Double-action nothing, Dave Thomas! I heard Mr. Fulton tell Tod
yesterday he was to pick four quarts of blackberries and take them over
to your Aunt Jen. Tod forgot, and so his dad wouldn't let him go
fishing, that's all."
"Sun's up," announced Jerry Ring.
"So's Tod!" exclaimed Dave Thomas, who had climbed to the first high
limbs of a near-by elm and now slid suddenly down into the midst of the
piled-up fishing paraphernalia. "I just saw him coming in from the
berry patch--here he comes now."
A lanky, good-natured looking sixteen-year-old boy, in loose-fitting
overalls and pale blue shirt open at the throat, came loping down the
path.
"Gee, fellows," he panted, "I expect you're cussing mad--but I _had_ to
pick those berries before I went, and it took me so long to grouch out
the green ones after it got light."
"I see you brought the very greenest one of all along," observed Dave
dryly.
"Oh, you here, too, little one?" as if seeing him for the first time.
"I didn't know kindergarten was closed for the day. I make one guess
who tipped over the bait can."
"Ask Frank," suggested Dave with pretended weariness; "he's got second
sight."
"Don't need second sight to see that worm crawling up your pants leg.
We going to stand here all day! I move we get a hike on down to the
boat. Maybe we can hitch on behind Steve Porter's launch--he's going up
past Dead Tree Point--and that'll save us the long pull through the
slough."
The boys picked up the great load of luggage, which was not so big when
divided among four boys, and hustled out of the Ring yard and down the
dusty road. They were four of a size; that is, Tod Fulton was tall and
somewhat flattened out, while Frank Ellery was more or less all in a
bunch, as Jerry said, who was himself sturdily put together. Dave
Thomas was neither as tall as Tod nor as stocky as Frank; He looked
undersized, in fact. But his "red hair and readier tongue," his friends
declared, more than made up for any lack of size. At any rate, no one
ever offered a second time to carry the heaviest end of the load.
Now, as they walked along through the back streets of Watertown,
rightly named as it was in the midst of lakes, creeks and rivers, they
began a discussion that never grew old with them. Tod began it.
"We've got plenty of worms, for once."
"Good!" cried Dave. "I've thought of a dandy scheme, but it'd take a
pile of bait."
"What's that?" asked Jerry, suspecting mischief.
"You know, you can stretch out a worm to about three inches. Tie about
a hundred together--allow an inch apiece for the knot--that would make
two hundred inches, or say seventeen feet. Put the back end of the line
about a foot up on the bank and the other end out in the water. Along
comes a carp--the only fish that eats _worms_--and starts eating. He
gets so excited following up his links of worm-weenies, that he doesn't
notice he's up on shore, when suddenly Tod Fulton, mighty fisherman,
grabs him by the tail and flips him----"
"Yes--where does he flip him?" Tod had dropped his share of the luggage
and now had Dave by the back of the neck.
"Back into the water and makes him eat another string of worms as
punishment for being a carp."
"You with your old dead minnows!" exclaimed Tod, giving Dave a push
that sent him staggering. "Last time we went, all you caught was a
dogfish and one starved bullhead. There's more real fish that'll bite
on worms than on any other bait. I've taken trout and even black bass.
Early in the morning I can land pickerel and croppies where a minnow or
a frog could sleep on the end of a six pounder's nose. Don't tell me."
"Yes," put in Jerry, "and I can sit right between the two of you and
with my number two Skinner and a frog or a bacon rind pull 'em out
while you fellows go to sleep between nibbles."
"Bully!" exclaimed Frank. "Every time we go home after a trip, you hang
a sign on your back: 'Fish for Sale,' with both s's turned backwards.
I'm too modest to mention the name of the boy who caught the largest
black bass ever hooked in Plum Run, but I can tell you the kind of fly
the old boy took, all the same."
"Testimony's all in," laughed Tod, good-humoredly. "And here we are at
the dock of the 'Big Four.'"
"Yes, and there goes Porter up around the bend. We row our boat to-day.
We ought to get up a show or something and raise enough money to buy a
motor."
"I move we change our plans and leave Round Lake for another trip." It
was lazy Frank who made the proposal.
"What difference does it make to you? You never row anyway. Plum Run's
too high for anything but still fishing----"
"I saw Hunky Doran coming back from Parry's Dam day before yesterday
and he had a dandy string."
"Sure. He always does. Bet you he dopes his bait," declared Tod.
"Well, you spit on the worm yourself. The dam isn't half as far as Dead
Tree, and, besides, we can always walk across to Grass Lake. Jerry
votes for the dam, don't you, Jerry?"
But Jerry only shrugged his shoulders. Frank and Tod always disagreed
on fishing places, largely because their styles of angling were
different and consequently a good place for one was the poorest place
in the world for the other. So Jerry, who usually was the peacemaker,
said nothing but unlocked the padlock which secured the boat, tossed
the key-ring to Dave with, "Open the boathouse and get two pair of
oars. Tod, take a squint at the sun--five-thirty, isn't it? An hour and
a half to the Dead Tree, and an hour more to Round Lake. What kind of
fish can you take in old Roundy after eight o'clock?"
"Oh, I knew we were going to the dam, all right. I give in. But if I've
got to go where I don't want to, I'm going to have the boat to fish
from."
"As if you didn't always have it!" snorted Frank. "The only one who
fishes in one place all day, but he's got to have the boat--and forgets
himself and walks right off it the minute he gets a real bite. Huh!"
Tod paid no attention to this insult. He and Jerry settled in their
places at the oars, with Frank at the stern for ballast, and Dave up
ahead to watch the channel, for Plum Run, unbelievably deep in places,
had a trick of shallowing at unlikely spots. More than once had the
_Big Four_ had her paint scraped off by a jagged shelf of rock or shoal.
They were all in their places, the luggage stowed away, and Frank was
ready to push away from the dock, when he raised his hand and said
instead: "Understand me, boys, I'm the last one in the world to
kick--you know me. But there's one request I have to make of you before
the push of my fingers cuts us off from the last trace of civilization."
"'Sw'at?" cried the three.
"When we have embarked upon this perilous voyage, let no mournful note
swell out upon the breeze, to frighten beasts and men--and fish--into
believing that Dave Thomas is once more _trying_ to sing!"
Immediately a mournful yowling began in the bow of the boat, growing
louder as they drew away from shore. And then, amid the laughter of his
three companions, Dave ended his wail and instead broke into a lively
boating song, the others joining in at the chorus. For Dave's singing
was a source of pride to his friends.
So, Dave singing lustily and Tod and Jerry tugging at the oars in time
with the music, they swung away from the dock and out in the center
channel of Plum Run, a good hundred yards from shore. Once in the
current, they swung straight ahead down stream. Before long the last
house of Watertown, where people were fast beginning to stir, had faded
from view. They passed safely through the ripples of the shoals above
Barren Island, a great place for channel cat when the water was lower.
Through the West Branch they steered, holding close to the island
shore, for while the current was slower, at least the water was deeper
and safer.
A mile-long stretch of smooth rowing lay ahead of them now, after which
they entered Goose Slough, narrow and twisty, with half-hidden snags,
and sudden whirlpools. More than one fishing party had been capsized in
its treacherous quarter mile of boiling length. Then came a so-called
lake, Old Grass, with the real Grass Lake barely visible through its
circle of trees. A crystal-clear creek was its outlet to Plum Run, a
thousand gleaming sunfish and tiny bass flashing through its purling
rapids or sulking in deep, dark pools. There was good fishing in Grass
Lake, but waist-high marsh grass, saw-edged, barred the way for nearly
half a mile.
But just ahead of them Plum Run had widened out once more to real river
size, its waters penned back by concrete, rock and timber dam, with
Parry's Mill on the east bank.
"Land me on the other side, above the big cottonwood," decided Frank.
"There's a weedy little bight up there where I predict a two-pound bass
in twenty minutes."
"I'll try the stretch just below, working toward the dam, I guess. How
about you, Jerry!" asked Dave.
"I'll stay with the boat awhile, I reckon. Where away, boatman?"
"Dam," grunted Tod.
"Not swearing, I take it?" inquired Jerry.
"No--fishing there."
Dave and Frank were dropped out at the cottonwood, where they were soon
exchanging much sage advice concerning likely spots and proper bait.
Jerry and Tod chuckled as they rowed away. Tod himself was keen on
still fishing with worms or grubs; he liked to sit and dream while the
bait did the work; but his quarreling with Dave and Frank was mostly
make-believe. Jerry, the best fisherman of the four, believed, as he
said, in "making the bait fit the fish's mouth." His tackle-box held
every kind of hook and lure; his steel rod and multiple reel were the
best Timkin's Sporting Goods Store in town could furnish; they had cost
him a whole summer's savings.
Tod rather laughed at Jerry's equipment. His own cheap brass reel and
jointed cane pole, with heavy linen line, was only an excuse.
Throw-lines with a half dozen hooks were his favorites, and a big
catfish his highest aim. As soon as the boat hit the dam he began
getting out his lines. Jerry jumped lightly over the bow.
"Shall I tie you up?" he called over his shoulder.
"Never mind, Jerry. I think I'll work in toward the shore a bit first,
and, anyway, she can't drift upstream." So Jerry went on his way out
toward the middle of the dam.
It was really a monstrous affair, that dam. The old part was built on
and from solid rock, being really a jutting out of a lime stone cliff
which had stood high and dry before the water had been dammed up by the
heavy timber cribs cutting across the original stream. Concrete
abutments secured these timbers and linked the walls of stone with the
huge gates opening into the millrace that fed the water to the
ponderous undershot millwheel. Just now the gates were open and the
water rushed through with deafening force. Jerry made his way across
the stonework section, having a hard time in the water-worn crevices,
slimed over with recent overflows, for when the millgates were closed,
Plum Run thundered over this part of the dam in a spectacular waterfall.
He had hardly reached the flat concrete before he noticed that the roar
from the millrace had ceased; the gates had been closed. All the
better; this part of the river was shallow; when the water rose, big
fish would be coming in to scour over the fresh feeding grounds. So he
moved a little nearer shore and quickly trimmed his lines. He heard a
hail from the bank as he made his first cast. It was from Dave.
"Mind if I come out and try my luck beside you?"
"Not at all. Water's coming up fast. Best try some grubs or worms,
though. No good for minnows here now."
"Sure," agreed Dave, settling comfortably beside him. "Water sure is
filling up, isn't she? Guess the Miller of the Dee dropped a cogwheel
into his wheat."
"Not wishing anybody any bad luck, but I hope they don't start up again
all day. This'll be a backwater as soon as the current starts going
over the dam. Another six inches--say! Look at Tod. If he isn't fishing
right above the flume. Wonder if he's noticed."
"Noticed? He's got a bite, that's what! Look at him bending to it. It's
a big one, you bet. Golly, did you see that!"
"I see more than that," exclaimed Jerry grimly, dropping his precious
pole and starting across the slippery rocks on the run. "If he doesn't
get out of there in about thirty seconds, he's going over the dam!"
But just as Jerry mounted the last clump of rocks, just as Dave's
desperate shouts had aroused Tod to a realization of his
danger,--something happened. You have watched a big soap bubble
swelling the one last impossible breath; you have seen a camp coffee
kettle boiling higher and higher till _splush!_ the steaming brown mass
heaves itself into the fire--the bending, crowding mile-wide surface of
Plum Creek found a sudden outlet. And right in the center of that
outlet was a plunging tiny boat.
"Help!" rang out one choked-off cry, as in a great rush of suddenly
foaming flood, over the dam plunged a boat and a terrorized boy.