THE AEROPLANE SPY
“Where’ve you been?” demanded the factory umpire instantly.
“I’ve been asleep in the tent,” responded Connie, smiling.
“How long?” continued his questioner.
“’Bout an hour and a half!”
“Have you been out of bounds?” broke in Professor Souter.
“No, sir. I’ve never been over a few hundred yards from this spot.”
“Then you must have disguised yourself,” suggested the third umpire.
“No, sir――I did not. Ever’thing has been fair an’ square.”
“Then I think it’s up to you to tell us how you passed through this
crowd without anyone seeing you,” exclaimed Mr. Chase of the table
factory skeptically.
“I didn’t go through the crowd,” laughed Connie provokingly. “I went
under it.”
“Alexander!” exclaimed Mr. Conyers, “make a report to the committee at
once of where you have been.”
“Very simple,” began Connie. “As we planned, the boys covered me with a
heap of cut thistles only a few hundred yards up the road, around the
bend. We did it because I calculated all the fellows chasing us would
start out on the run and not look around very much just next to the
camp.”
“I looked in that pile of thistles,” protested Carrots Compton. “You
wasn’t so smart.”
“You were too late,” went on Connie. “You see, I was the first one hid,
and I had almost a half hour leeway. It was pretty hot and prickly
under the thistles, and I didn’t know if I could stand it. Then while
I was movin’ around tryin’ to make a sort of nest, all of a sudden I
felt a kind of draft. It was so strong I knew I was near a hole of some
kind――and that’s what I was. Just back of where I was lyin’ there was
a cave-in in the ground. Some one had laid a few rails acrost it, and
then the thistles was piled on there――to keep the stock out, I guess.”
“I seen that hole,” interrupted Carrots. “There wasn’t nothin’ in it
but some rails an’ weeds.”
“That was later,” laughed Connie. “The hole was a break in the big
three-foot cement tile. When I felt the wind suckin’ in there I knew
it was empty, and I could see it was dry. I knew it ran right along
the road by the camp an’ ended by the river bank. I took a chance and
dropped down into it. Then to make it look as if no one could have done
it, I pulled in the rails an’ thistles an’ started for the river.”
“In the ditch tile?” asked Mr. Trevor alarmed.
“Sure!” answered Connie. “It was dark for a long time, and there was
things there――something like a water rat I reckon it was, kept runnin’
ahead o’ me. An’ I think there was a snake or two――judgin’ by the
sounds――but it didn’t bother me. I could see daylight after a long
crawl, an’ then I felt better, ’cause it got cooler. Once some one
looked in the open end o’ the drain, but I laid flat an’ still. An’
when I got to the river there wasn’t anyone in sight. I crawled out
an’ snook along under the high bank about twenty-five feet an’ crawled
up into the tent from the back. So’s to be sure no one would look in
an’ see me I crawled under some bedclothes an’ then I went to sleep.
That’s all.”
Mr. Chase attempted, for a moment, to make a point that Art, Connie and
Colly Craighead had gone out of bounds by crossing the river line. But
the umpires rejected his contention as the conditions clearly specified
“beyond the river” and not “in it or on it.” When the list was checked
up, all names and numbers were found to agree with the umpires’ list
and the Coyotes were officially credited with having found eight of the
ten Wolf “hide outs.”
Then followed the luncheon hour. Every shady tree seemed to have its
group of picnickers busy with fried chicken, jelly cake, potato salad,
pickles and like refreshments. The Coyotes were guests of the Wolves at
a special spread. Everyone ate hurriedly, for the real struggle was yet
to come. The Wolves knew what they had to do to win and, figuratively,
they pawed the ground eager for the start. Sharp at one o’clock the ten
Coyotes marched out on the road with the committee. At one thirty the
straining Wolves were turned loose.
But, to the surprise of the spectators, the Wolves trotted down the
road only beyond the crowd. There they came to a stop and each scout
could be seen attaching a large white flag to his staff――all except Art
Trevor and Willie Bonner who did not even carry staffs. Then, Leader
Conyers was observed to take from his pocket a roll of paper and trace
his finger over it as if giving certain directions.
This done, Connie and seven other boys separated and spreading out
like the sticks of a fan, took to their heels. There was an advance to
right and left over fences, several scouts started straight down the
road, and two boys set out up and down the river. Art and Willie Bonner
waited until their mates had begun to disappear and then they turned
and ran back to the camp.
The astonished spectators gazed at them without comment. The two Wolves
silently trotted into the camp and then toward the bridge in the rear.
It was not until the bridge began to rattle under the feet of Art and
Bonner that curiosity found words. At that point the factory umpire
called:
“Here, you fellows! You’re going out of bounds!”
But the running scouts proceeded without a pause.
“You’re wrong,” explained Professor Souter. “The pursuers can go
where they please. It’s the ‘hide outs’ only who must keep within the
district.”
To confirm this, a fact well understood by Art and his companions, the
rules were examined and Professor Souter was found to be right.
“I hope they ain’t givin’ up,” laughed the factory owner. “A real sport
sticks, win or lose.”
“I think they’ll be back,” spoke up Mr. Trevor, who seemed to be
the only person not mystified. “Meanwhile,” he added addressing the
hundreds present, “I have been told by the Wolves that you need expect
no bulletins from the field until the enemy has been located.”
Between the wonder over the apparent retreat of two of the Wolves, and
some disappointment over this news――which made it plain that they must
have a system and meant to give all their time to the search instead of
running in to report each man found――the crowd gradually melted away
among the trees.
A few minutes after two o’clock a man lying in the grass suddenly
sprang up with a shout and wildly waving arms. As he plunged toward
the open, dusty road a wave of picnickers joined him.
“An aeroplane!” rose in a chorus. “A flyin’ machine!”
High above the road leading back to town, a brown expanse of canvas was
gliding through the air toward the iron bridge as swiftly and steadily
as a hawk with its eye fixed on a field mouse below. The whirr of two
glistening propellers ran before the object. On its lower frame sat two
boys. One of them with a small object in his lap, was holding a pair of
field glasses on the gaping crowd. The other, with his hands upon the
levers, was holding the machine on a course directly over the road.
“It’s Trevor and that circus boy!” yelled some one. And almost before
the crowd could get on the road, Willie Bonner’s resurrected aeroplane
slid over the camp and, with an upward dart, was beyond the gaping
crowd.
“Nothin’ doin’!” yelled an excited man, Mr. Chase. “They can’t put
that over on our boys. This ain’t a circus. The rules say: ‘No outside
help.’ That’s outside help. Rule ’em out.”
The umpires, puzzled, looked at each other. Then adherents of the two
patrols crowded about the committee, shouting, protesting or denying
charges. Bonner had banked and headed his aeroplane down the river and
was out of sight before a decision was reached. But in the end, even
the Coyotes’ umpire had to agree that the use of the aeroplane was
within the rules, as it belonged to the Wolves and was operated by them.
Those in the camp who first saw the aeroplane shooting across the
river, at once connected it with the two boys who had disappeared in
that direction. But the concealed Coyotes had no such suggestion to
help them in identifying the occupants of the aeroplane. This was as
the Wolves had hoped and expected.
“Now,” began Bonner as the aeroplane headed down the river, “get ready.
I’ll cover every foot of the district. Watch your chart and use your
glasses. I reckon those who are inside of anything’ll pop out to see
what’s doin’.”
“It’s a cinch,” chuckled Art. “They ain’t one of ’em knows about the
machine. Just keep high enough so they can’t make out our faces, an’
I’ll do the rest with the glasses.”
“An’ them we miss, the other boys ought to get.”
The first results amply proved that the boys’ theory was a good one.
Near the County Fair road, in the southwest corner of the district, a
small, scum-covered cow pond stood in a low pasture. Art, using his
glass, made out a Wolf running from the pond, which he had evidently
examined with no result. As Art kept his glass on the opaque green
pool, the aeroplane made a circling sweep. When it was about to pass
over the water, a slime-coated boy, dripping water and mud, scrambled
up out of the center of the pond, his face upturned, his eyes staring
and his mouth open.
“Number nine,” exclaimed Art. After another squint with the glass he
added jubilantly: “Joe Andrews. He just had his nose out.”
While the aeroplane swung to the end of the district, Art jotted the
name and number on his chart. Bonner’s machine was not a varnished,
silk-winged aeroplane. The new white linen sections on the old, soiled
and oily planes were even grotesque. But it was built on scientific
principles, light and stout, carried a four-cylinder, twenty horse
power motor that was working as well as it did before the accident
at the circus. The principal expense in the rebuilding of the flying
machine had been the cost of a new magneto. Other needed material had
been secured in Scottsville.
“Now,” suggested the jubilant young aviator, “we’ll take a turn about
the whole district and look wherever it seems unlikely anyone would
hide.”
The circuit required less than twelve minutes, and the aeroplane passed
the camp again. Not a Coyote was seen but the Wolves were picked out,
scattered here and there, by their white staff flags. Turning westward
at the camp road, the aeroplane headed directly across the “hide out”
district. Art kept his glass busy, but no Coyote head rewarded him.
“That looks like about the last place anyone would hide,” suggested Art
pointing directly ahead. “Let’s try it.”
He referred to a broad wheat field which spread over the top of a low
hill. The crop had been cut and threshed, and a large part of the
field had been newly plowed. The plowed part covered the crest of the
rolling field and was apparently devoid of all life except blackbirds.
A white-flagged Wolf could be seen in the distance cutting across a
corner of the plowed slope.
The aeroplane pilot gripped his levers anew and the machine rolled
upward on the air billows, while Art’s nerves tingled with the joy of
the chase.
“Make a swing and come back!” he suddenly exclaimed. “There’s something
in a furrow. It’s one of ’em!”
Without looking, Bonner made a wide swing and turned over the brow of
the rise.
“It is!” almost shouted Art. “It’s one of ’em! But he’s on his side. I
can’t make out his number. You couldn’t see him twenty yards away.” He
turned and twisted to keep his glasses on the half buried figure. “He
saw us. He’s on. He ain’t moved an inch. Try again.”
Twice more the sputtering aeroplane circled over the lifeless looking
figure, each time flying lower.
“I’m sure it’s Nick Apthorp,” whispered Art, “but I can’t get his
number.”
“Well,” replied Bonner, “we’d better give some one the tip.”
Three white staffs were in sight. Bonner headed the dipping aeroplane
toward the nearest one. When it was seen that the aeroplane spies
had caught the watching Wolf’s eye, Art waved his hat. The Wolf with
the flag, Colly Craighead, responded by dipping his pennant and then,
as the hawk-like aeroplane banked again and mounted skyward over the
higher field, Colly set out on a dead run.
When the motionless figure came in sight again Art crouched low in his
seat. Directly above the silent figure Art’s arm shot out and a small
bag dropped swiftly to the plowed ground beneath. A cloud of white
arose and, ten feet from the concealed Coyote, the rich black soil
glared out in a spot of snow white flour.
“He sees it,” shouted Art. “Colly’s got his measure all right. I guess
we’ve nailed two hard ones, anyway.”
Just at this moment young Bonner noticed that the oil gauge was empty.
With a reassuring word to allay Art’s fears he made a sharp bank and
glide for the hard and smooth Phillipstown road. While the two boys
were bending low over the engine, about five minutes later a call
sounded from an apple orchard about a hundred yards away.
“Hey there!” yelled a voice. “Is the show free?”
Art whirled to see a boy standing in an old cider barrel and just about
to spring out.
“Sure,” yelled Art. “Always free to our friends.”
At the sound of Art’s voice the struggling boy turned his glance upward
again and then thrust his body back into the tight-fitting barrel.
“Who was it?” asked Bonner still busy with the engine.
“Mart Clare, number three,” chuckled Art as he made another note on his
chart. “Betrayed by his curiosity.”
Mart apparently did not realize that he was out of the running, for he
kept to his stuffy hiding place while the feed pipe was readjusted and
the two spies had made a new ascent. It was then three o’clock.
“It’s time to round up,” announced Bonner. “The boys’ll be lookin’ for
us.”
Again the stout little airship began to circle the “hide out”
territory. With his field glasses Art could make out white flags in
all directions. Carrying out a prearranged plan, Bonner headed the
aeroplane from one sentinel-like Wolf to the next one. As the first
one was passed he reversed his staff and held its head on the ground.
A look of disappointment passed over the face of each boy in the
aeroplane and Art made a check on the chart in his lap. It was Sammy
Addington’s report――a blank.
The next Wolf the aeroplane picked up held his staff out like a
semaphore and then moved it up and down four times.
[Illustration: SIGNALING THE “AEROPLANE SPY”]
“That’s better!” exclaimed Art. “I wonder who number four is.”
Flitting over the fields, forests and roads beneath, the “Scouts of the
Air” were soon signalled by Colly Craighead who confirmed his discovery
of the Coyote in the hill furrow by eight movements of his flag. Then,
in turn, came a Wolf who they saw was Davy Cooke, who announced he had
seen number two; Paul Corbett reported number four sighted and then
while Art was busy checking this information, Bonner caught an extra
message of one flash.
“I wonder if he means he saw number five, or number four and number
one!” exclaimed Art, in doubt what to put down. “We already have number
four.”
The next searcher to communicate with the aeroplane answered this; Phil
Abercrombie flashed five times.
“Great!” shouted the aviator. “Only one blank so far. There’s Connie,”
he added. “Bully for you, old man! He’s got number ten. That ought to
be lucky.”
For some minutes no other Wolves could be made out. Bonner took another
flight south and returned to find two white flags coming out into the
main road from a lane. They were some distance away and Art was not
sure but that they were among those who had already reported. As he
trained his glasses on them they waved, “six” and “seven.” There was a
quick check of his list by Art and then, with a yell of victory he tore
loose the bow of a string beneath his seat, and the bright blue Wolf
Patrol pennant dropped fluttering into the wind.
Every Wolf Scout within sight of the flag knew what it meant. At the
first sight of the banner the Wolf call came from far and near. Eight
widely scattered Wolf Scouts threshed the air with white pennants, and
at twenty minutes after three o’clock, like the closing sticks of a
fan, the Wolf searchers――led by the fluttering flag on the aeroplane
above――were converging on the distant camp.
There was no quibble about the victory. When the Coyote Scouts reached
camp, Hank Milleson was quick to shake the winners by the hand. “We got
our trimmin’s,” he exclaimed with a laugh. “But we got ’em fair an’
square. I reckon a few brains are as good as a bunch o’ muscle.”
“No hard feelin’s?” smiled Connie.
“Not on your life,” answered Hank. “You deserve it, an’ we got to hand
it to you――even if we did lose our hundred dollars. Mebbe it’s worth
that to find out a thing or two.”
“Cut out the hot air,” broke in Art with a grin. “We got a lot to do
yet. We got somethin’ up our sleeve for you kids yet if you’re with us.”
“Ain’t goin’ to rub it in, are you?” asked Hank with mock seriousness.
“Listen,” explained Art with the eagerness of long pent-up enthusiasm.
“You know the big meadow up at Cloverdale?”
The Coyotes nodded their heads.
“Well, we got the shape of a big man-o’-war marked out with whitewash,
out in the middle of it. Bonner’s goin’ to take the flyin’ machine
right up there an’ we’re goin’ to have a new game.”
Blank looks showed on every face.
“We’re goin’ to throw bombs o’ paper bags full o’ flour at a big target
on the man-o’-war――”
[Illustration: PLAYING AT WAR]
“Who?” came in chorus. “From the aeroplane?”
“Ever’ one of us! Coyotes an’ Wolves! We’re goin’ to draw lots. Ever’
kid gets a ride on the aeroplane an’ three trials.”
While every Coyote stood open-mouthed――lost in the wild wave of joy
that so suddenly engulfed him――Mr. Trevor stepped forward.
“And when it’s too dark to throw any more bombs, the Cloverdale Farm
invites every scout here to a last contest of the day――a test to see if
each of you can eat a whole smothered chicken and a quart of ice cream.”
“Boys,” exclaimed Hank Milleson when he finally regained some
composure, “there ain’t but one thing to it: Three cheers for the Boy
Scouts of the Air!”
These had not yet died away when Carrots Compton added:
“An’ the Aeroplane Spy!”
As Carrots gave Art Trevor a big boy-slap on the back, the
table-factory owner turned and walked to his automobile with a snort of
disgust.
[Illustration]
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_Splendid Illustrations by Norman Hall_
Publishers The Reilly & Britton Co. Chicago
[Illustration]
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* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in
bold by “equal” signs (=bold=).
――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate.
――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
――The price list for the Scout uniforms on p. 142 does not equal
the total listed. Total retained as printed.