THE FLYING EAGLE SCOUTS
For a minute or two it was hard for the three boys to understand just
what had happened. They were pounced upon and hurled roughly to the
ground, in spite of their violent struggles, and there they were
pommeled unmercifully. They fought back, but they were hopelessly
outnumbered. It was no adventure-story fight where the lone hero
engages a dozen husky brutes and by superior science and strength lays
his assailants out one by one.
Too bewildered to be really angry, the three found themselves pinned to
the ground. Then they were able to take stock of their attackers. Six
boys they were, of about the same size and age as Dave, Jerry and
Frank, They were dressed in some odd sort of uniform, like brownish
canvas. Just now their faces wore triumphant grins.
"Here comes Phil," remarked one of the three who were standing, coming
over to sit on Jerry's legs, Jerry having seized a favorable
opportunity to attempt escape.
"What's the idea?" inquired the newcomer, a tall but well-knit chap
with a broad, sunburned face and a mop of black hair showing under the
forward brim of his wide hat.
"We caught them trying to sneak up on us, so we fooled them and jumped
on them instead. It's part of that Lost Island gang," volunteered
Dave's captor.
"We're not either," exploded Dave.
"Shut up!" exclaimed the one astride his stomach. "Didn't we see you
slinking along through the bushes?"
"Well, so were you. But we didn't try any wild Indian game on you just
on that account."
"Good reason why. You didn't see us," crowed the one on top, giving
Dave a vigorous poke in the ribs to emphasize the point.
That was too much for Dave. His usual good nature had been oozing out
with every passing second. Now he gave a sudden twist, heaved, turned,
heaved again, and in less time than it was told, was on his feet and
presenting a pair of promising looking fists to the two others who had
quickly come to their comrade's assistance.
"Hold on a minute," suggested the one they had called Phil. "Let's get
the straight of this thing first and fight afterwards. You say you
don't belong on the island?" he asked, turning to Dave.
"We certainly don't. We were trying to get onto it without being seen.
That's why we were skulking along that way."
"Trying to get onto it? You haven't any boat."
"We could swim, couldn't we?"
"But what do you want to get onto the island for? Where are you from,
anyhow?"
"None of your particular business," snapped Dave, but Jerry answered as
well as he could with his shortness of breath--he too was "stomached"
by a stout boy of his own size:
"Watertown."
"Know anybody there by the name of Tod Fulton? He's a cousin of
mine--why, what's the matter?" for the three boys had cried out in
dismay.
"Why--why--he's the boy we're after. He's our chum," stammered Jerry at
last.
"Then what you after him for--if he's your chum?"
"Well, he's--he's----" began Jerry, and Dave blurted out:
"Drowned!"
"What!" cried the whole crew at that. "Tod Fulton drowned!"
"We don't know for sure. That's why we're trying to get onto Lost
Island."
Then the story came out, piecemeal, for all three insisted on telling
it. Phil stood as if stunned. At the end he said simply:
"He's my cousin. I'm Phil Fulton. We live at Chester. That's about ten
miles south of here. We're the Flying Eagle Patrol of Boy Scouts--maybe
you noticed our suits."
"Thought you were some kind of bushwhackers the way you dropped on us,"
complained Frank. "But what was the idea in thumping us because you
thought we were from the island?"
"We had good reasons enough," declared Phil. "We left town at midnight
last night, hiked all the way to our boat-landing two miles up the
river, and made the long pull up the Plum in the dark just for the sake
of getting an early morning chance at the best bass rock you ever heard
of--just to get chased out at the point of a shotgun after we'd landed
the first one--a three pounder too. Can you blame us for being sore?"
"On Lost Island?" asked Jerry eagerly.
"No, _off_ Lost Island. A big burly ruffian blew down on us, cussing a
streak, and wouldn't hardly let us get into our boat. Chucked stones at
us all the way across and promised us a mess of birdshot if we came
back. Do you blame us for wanting to lay you out?" It was Dave's
conqueror who spoke.
"If that's what you do on suspicion, I don't want to be around when
you're sure of yourself. My ribs'll be sore for a week."
The boys had been talking excitedly; each one was wrought up over the
fate of poor Tod and this was the only way they were willing to show
their feelings. It was Phil who brought them back to earth.
"Well, fellows," he suggested, "let's get acquainted first, and then
let's see if we can't frame up some way of getting across and going
over that island from end to end. Line up, Scouts, and be presented."
The Scouts lined up in two columns.
"This is Sid Walmsly, nicknamed 'the worm,' partly because that's the
way we pronounce his name, but mostly because it's a long worm that has
no turn, and Sid says he's always the one to be left out. You can
remember him by the wart on his left knuckle. Next is Dick Garrett;
he's assistant Patrol Leader. This thin, long-drawn-out morsel of sweet
temper is Fred Nelson. We tried to nickname him "Angel" but he licked
everyone that tried it on him. Now comes our joker, we'd call him
Trixie if we dared. His ma calls him Algy Brown. Frank Willis stands
first in the behind row. He goes by the name of "Budge," chiefly
because he _won't_ unless he wants to. Barney Knowles, the littlest
giant in the world--the one in the red sweater. He wears a sweater in
July and shirt-sleeves in December. And last of all, but not least--far
from it--Ted Lewis, the only grouchy fat man in captivity. Smile for
us, Teddy." Teddy growled.
Jerry introduced himself and his two chums, and then turned anxiously
to Phil. "Got any plan?"
"Why not just get into our boat and row over? We can tell that chump
over there----"
"Thought you told us good Scouts were always respectful to our elders?"
interrupted Ted, he of the "grouch."
"Respectful where respect is _due_," came the quick response. "We can
tell the gentleman that we have sent the rest of the gang back for the
sheriff----"
"And good Scouts never tell lies----" This from Ted again.
"Be still or I'll make it the truth by sending you back after him. We
ought to make the try, anyway, because that makes our next move easier.
If we can't get on the island in the open, we've got to use a little
strategy. If we just could get our boat around to the other side of the
island----"
"I've got it!" cried Dave. "Our boat's down the river. While the bunch
of us keep up a demonstration along the shore here, two of us could
slip down and get the boat and sneak in at the lower end."
"Good. We'd best waste no time about it because it's going to be coming
on dark before we know it. Who's going along with me?"
"To the island? I'll go. The man knows _me_," agreed Jerry. "Where's
your boat?"
The rest waited in the cover of the bushes while Phil and Jerry quietly
made their way down the river bank to where the Scout boat was moored.
They sprang in at once, Phil pushing off and hopping lightly to the
oars. There was only one pair, but he sent the boat skimming across the
ripples. No one was in sight on the island, and they were in hopes of
making a landing unobserved, but just as their boat touched shore the
willows parted and the man stepped out on the high bank.
"Back again?" he demanded gruffly.
"Oh, yes," replied Phil easily. "We came back to see if you'd let us
look for a box of tackle one of the boys thinks he left down where we
were fishing this morning."
"Oh! And you," said the man sarcastically, turning to Jerry. "I suppose
you came to look for a lock of hair from your drowned friend's head?"
The man's tone was so unfeeling that Jerry simply gasped, but Phil
boiled over at once.
"I'll have you know that that boy was my cousin. We have good reason
for believing that he's on this island and _we're going to search it_!"
"Oh, indeed!" and Jerry could have sworn that there was a twinkle in
the man's eye for all there was no mistaking the threat in his voice.
"Well, I can promise you a full-sized spanking unless you make
yourselves scarce in just about one half minute. This makes the third
time I've had to chase you off--and third time's the charm, you know."
"But why don't you want us to look for our friend? Surely you've got
nothing against him--or us."
"Not a thing. Not a thing, sonny. Only I live on this place, and I
can't have a troop of youngsters tracking mud in at my front door. That
friend of yours couldn't very well be on my island without my knowing
it, could he?"
"But you've never said out and out that he wasn't on the island,"
asserted Jerry boldly. "And you've acted so suspicious that--that we
wouldn't believe you now if you did say it."
The man laughed at that, for Jerry had started out by trying to be
diplomatic, but his feelings got the better of him before the end.
"I'll be careful not to say it then. As for the tackle box--here it
is." Jerry opened his eyes wide; he had thought the box a pure
invention on the part of Phil. "Now back water and keep backing."
"You think you've got us beat," shouted Jerry at his retreating back.
"Never you worry--I've told Mr. Fulton, and he and Mr. Aikens will be
coming down here with a posse. They won't be asking your permission if
they can investigate an island that doesn't belong to you any more than
it does to me."
"It belongs to Mr. Fulton, I suppose?" challenged the man, and turning
around for a last laugh. Neither boy answered.
"You tell your Mr. Fulton that I said he was welcome to come any time."
"Now what?" asked Jerry, as Phil turned the boat about and headed for
the other shore.
"What next? Night, mostly. Then I think we'll show your Mr. Billings a
few Scout tricks he doesn't know about."
"I didn't say his name was Billings----"
"I know--but _I_ did. I've seen him before. That may be the reason he's
so touchy about having us land on the island. The last time I saw him
it was down at dad's office. Uncle Ed--that's Mr. Fulton, you know--was
there, and when I opened the door on them suddenly, he and this
Billings were having the hottest kind of an argument. Dad hustled me
out of there in a hurry, but not before Uncle Ed'd called him
Billings--and a lot of other things."
"You think then that Billings is still sore at Mr. Fulton, and that
he's holding Tod there----"
"Nothing more likely. We'll know to-night. At least we'll know whether
Tod is there--and I guess we'll make a good strong try at getting him
loose."
"How can we do it? What's your plan?"
"Leave it to the Flying Eagle Scouts. I'm not bragging, but we're one
live crew!"