THE BIG PLAY
"Look here, Mr. Fulton," began Jerry, almost stammering in his
eagerness. "It wouldn't be any trick at all to get over to the
interurban tracks in time to catch the four o'clock northbound. That
gets to Watertown at four twenty-five--say half-past. We ought to be
able to get the gas and rout out a machine to haul it in inside another
half hour. That's five o'clock. Then an hour certainly would see us
back here, with a good hour and more of daylight left."
"I've gone over all that in my mind a dozen times. But I've also spent
a little time figuring what these men would be doing in the meanwhile.
There's just one place in Watertown that keeps any quantity of
gasoline--the rest buy of him. And he'd die of fright if he should be
caught with more than a hundred gallons at one time."
"But we don't need more than five!" exploded Tod.
"Sure, son, sure. But suppose somebody just ahead of you made it his
business to buy the hundred--how about that?"
"But there's a chance," objected Jerry, returning to the attack. "We
might be able to get away without their seeing us."
"Don't worry; they're watching every move we make."
"Then I've got another scheme. See if you can pick it full of holes
too." There was more than a touch of impatience in Jerry's voice.
"They're watching this side, that's sure; and they know we're bound to
figure on either Watertown or Chester. We'll fool them. I'll swim
across to the other side, reach a telephone, get my dad, who's at
Corliss these days on business. There's a Standard Oil tank at Corliss.
Dad'll start the gas out inside of twenty minutes----"
"Corliss is a good two hours' trip by auto, my boy. It would take at
least half an hour to get the message through, and another to get the
gas here from the road. That means at least seven o'clock, and it would
be dark before we were ready to go up."
"All right," agreed Jerry, refusing to give up. "Suppose it does get
dark: there's such a thing as flying by night, isn't there? All we've
got to do is to build a dozen flaring bonfires to see by----"
"Now you're talking!" exclaimed Mr. Fulton with sudden enthusiasm.
"You've hit it. Not brush--that would smoke us out. But there are ten
or a dozen open air torches here like those they use at street shows,
and there's not enough water in the gasoline to hurt it for that
purpose. Moreover, we can switch our engine onto that dynamo in the
shop, and we'll string incandescent lights all through the trees; we've
got plenty of them. There's at least a mile of bare copper wire about
the place--what you two standing with your mouths wide open for?
Thought you were going to get that gas! Where in thunder are all those
boys?"
"Here they come--tired of waiting out there in the sun, I guess. So
long, dad; I'm going with Jerry."
"You are _not_. You're going to be chief electrician. If Jerry can't
put through his part of the job alone he doesn't deserve credit for
having thought of the whole scheme."
The first part of Jerry's task proved easy enough. It took him well
over the half hour Mr. Fulton had predicted, to find a farmhouse with a
telephone, and Central seemed an unusually long time in ringing through
to the office Jerry's father had been making his headquarters for the
past weeks. Then it developed that Mr. Ring was out at a conference of
business men. Jerry took the telephone number the girl gave him, and
repeated it to Central, who again took her time in giving the
connection. Jerry was about ready to drop with nervousness before he
finally heard his father's gruff voice at the other end of the line.
The words simply tumbled over themselves as Jerry told his story;
fortunately, Mr. Ring was shrewd enough to guess the half that Jerry
jumbled in his eagerness.
"Where are you--so I can call you back?" was Mr. Ring's only reply.
Fifteen minutes later the telephone rang. Jerry answered, to hear: "Ten
gallons of gasoline, double strained, left here five minutes ago on a
fast delivery truck. It ought to reach the road opposite Lost Island
inside of two hours. You be there to tell them what to do. Good luck,
Jerry--I'm going back to that conference. This skylark may cost me a
five hundred dollar profit."
"It isn't a skylark--it's a sky_rocket_, and Mr. Fulton will pay you
double over!" But it was into a dead transmitter he shouted it, for Mr.
Ring had not waited.
Jerry did not wait long either, but raced across fields and through
woods to the river road. He found a shady spot, which he established as
his headquarters, but he was too restless to wait there long. They
seemed a mighty long two hours. The sun sank lower and lower; Jerry
heard a bell ringing far off, calling the farm hands to supper--he was
getting hungry himself. Shadows began to darken, the clouds flared up
in a sudden crimson, first low down on the horizon, then high up in the
sky. The sun dropped out of sight behind the trees.
Away down the road sounded a faint drumming noise that grew nearer and
louder until around the bend whirred a dust-raising black monster that
came to a halt a few feet away from the boy who had sprung out,
shouting and waving his arms. "You waiting for gasoline?" a grouchy
voice demanded. "Are you Mr. Ring?"
"I sure am!"
"Well, come on back here and help h'ist it out. We're in a hurry to get
back to town--why it's only a kid!" as Jerry came up. "Who's going to
help you handle it? It's in two five-gallon cans."
"I guess I can manage it all right. I've got some friends waiting down
on the river bank."
"All right; it's your funeral. There you are, sealed, signed and
delivered." The motor roared out, then settled to a steady hum; the man
backed and turned and soon was swallowed up in the dust and the growing
dark.
Jerry braced his shoulders for the stiff carry to the Plum, a
five-gallon can in each hand. He was willing to stop now and then for a
breathing spell, but at last he set the load down on the narrow fringe
of sandy beach. Cupping his hands about his mouth, he sent a lusty
shout ringing across the water; he was too weary to swim it, and there
did not seem to be much need for further concealment. There was an
instant answer, showing that the boys had been awaiting his signal. The
splash of oars told him that the boat was on the way, and he felt
suddenly glad that he could now think of a few minutes' rest.
It proved to be Dave and Tod and Phil in the Scout boat. They made
quick work of loading in the two cans, and then they all piled in, Dave
and Tod at the oars. They were perhaps halfway across when Jerry asked,
anxiously, it seemed:
"Can't you get any more speed out of her, fellows?"
"What's eating you? It's as dark now as it's going to get," answered
Dave, at the same time letting his oars float idly up against the side
of the boat.
"I'm worried, that's why," exclaimed Jerry, slipping over and pushing
Dave out of his seat. "Do you hear anything?"
They all listened, Tod holding his oars out of the water. Sure enough,
a purring, deeply muffled sound came faintly across the water. It was
unmistakably a motorboat.
"Some camper," suggested Dave.
"It sounds more like--trouble," declared Phil, a significant accent on
the word. "The enemy, I bet, and trying to cut us off."
"Well, we've got a big start on them. They're a long way off" again
Dave volunteered.
"You mean you're a long way off. They've got her tuned down--she isn't
over two hundred yards away and coming like blue blazes. They mean
mischief--they aren't showing a single light. What's our plan?"
"Keep cool," advised Jerry. "They'll probably try to bump us. We'll row
along easy-like, with a big burst of speed at the last second. Before
they can turn and come at us again, we can make shore. Steady now!"
The drone of the motor was almost upon them. The dusk lay heavy over
the water; they could see nothing. Louder and louder sounded the
explosions, but now they had slowed up. A dim shape showed through the
gloom.
"All set!" came the low command from Jerry, just as the boat, muffler
cut out, the engine at top speed, and volleying revolutions and
deafening explosions, seemed to leap through the water.
"Down hard!" cried Jerry, lunging with his oars. Tod grunted as he put
all his strength into the pull. The Scout boat seemed to lift itself
bodily out of the water as it plunged forward--only inches to spare as
a slim hull slipped by the stern.
"Yah!" yelled Phil, jumping to his feet and shaking his fist wildly.
"You're beat!"
The Scout boat hit shore just then, and Phil, caught off his guard,
took a header and landed astride one of the gasoline cans. "I wonder if
that was a torpedo," he grunted as he picked himself up.
"No," chuckled Tod. "Just a reminder not to crow while your head is
still on the block."
The boys wasted no time in getting the gasoline out of the boat and up
through the bushes, sending a lusty shout ahead of them to tell the
waiting islanders that they were coming.
"Over on the far side of the clearing," directed Tod, who was carrying
one side of a can with Jerry. "We hauled the _Skyrocket_ over there as
the ground is more level and free from stumps."
They found the whole crew waiting about the airship, their eager faces
lighted up by the flaring flames of one of the gasoline torches.
"Hooray for Jerry, the Gasoline Scout!" they shouted as the boys
dropped their loads at the first convenient spot.
"Bully for you!" exclaimed Mr. Fulton, coming over and clapping Jerry
on the shoulder. "Have any trouble?"
"You better guess we did," broke in Dave. "A motorboat tried its best
to run us down."
Mr. Fulton looked grave as he listened to the tale of their adventure.
As Dave finished a spirited account of their narrow escape, the man
turned to Tod with:
"Guess you'd better look after filling the tank, son, while I chase
over to the house and get my goggles and my harness," referring to a
leather brace the doctor had brought him a few days before to use until
his shoulder grew stronger. Unfortunately, the thing was not properly
made and it held the arm too stiffly, so Mr. Fulton used it only when
he absolutely had to.
The boys all wanted to have a hand in this final operation and
consequently it took twice as long as was necessary to fill the tank.
Enough was spilled, as Tod said, to run the _Skyrocket_ ten miles. In
the meanwhile, one of the boys took the small can and went the rounds
and filled all the torches with gasoline, while another came close
behind him and started them going.
Tod finally left the rest to finish the job of filling the _Skyrocket_,
and disappeared in the direction of the workshop. Within five minutes
the boys heard the steady chugging of "Old Faithful" as they had named
the shop motor. An instant later the whole field was suddenly lighted
up as the twenty incandescent lights flashed up brightly.
"_Some_ illumination!" cried Jerry, delightedly, turning to Mr. Harris,
who happened to be nearest him.
"Yes," agreed the man coldly, "but it's all on the ground."
"Sure. Because there's nothing up in the air to see. Wait till the old
_Skyrocket_ shoots up," and Jerry walked over to where the boys were
standing. "Old grouch," he said to himself. "You'd think he didn't want
to see us win out."
Tod came hurrying back from the hangar. "Where's dad?" he asked.
"Hasn't got back yet."
"That's funny. I saw him leave the cabin as I went in to start up the
dynamo. He called something to me about hurrying so as not to give
those fellows any time to think up new tricks. Who's that over there
with Mr. Harris?"
"Phil, I guess. Your dad hasn't come out yet or we'd have seen
him--it's light as day."
"What's the cause of the delay now?" came from behind them. Mr. Lewis
had approached the group unobserved.
"Waiting for my father," answered Tod. "Guess he's having a hard time
with his harness. I'd have stopped for him only I thought he'd have
come back ahead of me. I'll chase over now and see if he needs any help
with his straps."
Tod ambled off across the torch-lighted open. It was a weird sight,
that flaring line of torches, the paler gleam of the electric lights
hung high in the trees, the animated faces of the excited boys, the two
stolid men, and the adventurous looking _Skyrocket_, its engines
throbbing, the tiny searchlight ahead of the pilot's seat sending a
fan-shaped road of white light into the trees. It was like a scene on
the stage--just before the grand climax.
Tod furnished the climax for this scene. Hardly had he disappeared
within the door of the cabin, before he came running out again,
shouting at the top of his voice:
"Fellows! Quick!"
There was a note in his cry that went through the boys like an electric
shock. It was anger and fear and a dozen other emotions at once. They
fairly flew across the hundred yards or so to the cabin, crowding in
till the main room was filled.
"What is it, Tod?" cried Phil, as his cousin flung open the door to the
tiny lean-to bedroom. Tod's face was pasty white and his eyes bulged
out.
"They've--_got_ dad! I'm afraid he's--killed!"
"No!" exclaimed Jerry, pushing past.
But the first look made him believe the worst. On the floor, toppled
over in the chair to which he had been bound, lay Mr. Fulton, his
injured shoulder twisted way out of place, his distorted face the color
of old ivory. Gagged and tightly laced to the bed lay Mr. Billings, his
features working in wildest rage.
But Mr. Fulton was not dead. He came to under the deft handling of Phil
and his fellow Scouts, but it was Mr. Billings who told the story of
the attack.
While Mr. Fulton had been struggling with the strap that held his
shoulder-brace in place, two burly men had burst through the doorway
and quickly overpowered him, handicapped as he was by his useless arm.
They had bound him to the chair, and then, after gagging and tying
Billings, had calmly proceeded to ransack the room, one holding a
pistol at Fulton's head while the other searched.
Papers scattered about on the floor, wrecked furniture and broken
boxes, testified to the thoroughness of the hunt. But they had found
nothing until they had thought to go through the bed on which Billings
lay. Under the mattress was a portfolio packed with blueprints and
plans. That was when Mr. Fulton had fallen; he had tried to free
himself from his bonds and get at the two, no matter how hopeless the
fight.
As Mr. Billings finished the story, Mr. Fulton opened his eyes weakly.
"Tod----" he gasped--"where's Tod?"
"Here, dad," coming close beside him where he lay on a big pile of
blankets.
"Look quick and see if they found the little flat book--you know."
Tod rummaged hastily through the disordered mess of drawings littered
over the bed and floor. "Not here," he confessed finally.
The man gave a deep groan. "We're done for, then. It had the contract
folded up in it. And it had the combination to the safe at the house,
and there was the list of the specifications Mr. Billings made out for
me when we packed away the first draft of the _Skyrocket_."
"What difference does that make, if they've already got the
blueprints'?" asked Jerry.
"Oh-h!" cried Mr. Fulton, despair in his voice, "don't you see? The
aeroplane itself was made here; Billings did all the work on it. But
Tod and I did all the experimental work at home. All the data
concerning the invention is back there in the safe!"
"And they're already halfway there in their motorboat!" groaned Phil.
But Mr. Fulton made no answer. His eyes were closed; he had fainted
dead away.
Tod jumped up from where he had been kneeling beside his father. "Look
after him, Phil," he directed briskly. "Jerry, you come with me. Those
villains have got the contract and they will soon have dad's secret--it
means that we're cleaned out. There's only one thing to do in a tight
place like this, and you and I are going to do it--if you've got the
nerve!"
"I've got it," responded Jerry quickly. "What is it?"
"We're going after those crooks in the _Skyrocket_!"