PAUL PERKINS, MOTOR SCOOTER.
“You’d better keep out of this, Jack Curtiss,” warned Rob, not at all
perturbed. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“Oh, you don’t! I suppose you didn’t have me sent to pris—I mean to a
friend’s for a visit, and you didn’t try to fix Bill Bender? I’ve got
some scores against you, Rob Blake, and I’m going to pay them out, right
now.”
This tirade proved as astonishing to Hunt and his companions as it did
to our boys. Rob and his friends had supposed that Curtiss and Bender
were still in prison in the West for the part they had played in the
cattle rustling raids. They did not know that influence had been brought
to bear in their favor, and on account of their youth the lads had been
released. Both had arrived in the village the day before, getting off
the train at a distant station and driving to their homes unnoticed.
That afternoon they had been taking a stroll in the woods, killing small
animals and stoning birds. They were on their way home, when the noise
of the encounter in the road attracted their attention.
But somehow, although Jack Curtiss’s arm was raised, it did not fall.
Instead, he suddenly thought better of the matter, and retreated,
mumbling angrily. Perhaps it had occurred to him that he was not in good
odor in the village anyway, and to become mixed up in a fight or attack
on the boys might result in his once again being compelled to leave the
place.
“Come on, Jack,” put in Bill Bender; “no use mixing up in this thing. I
hope that Rob Blake gets the thrashing he deserves, though, and——”
“I guess he won’t get it this time,” laughed Tubby, pointing to Hunt,
who, the first shock of astonishment at the interruption over, sat
nursing his face on the bank.
“Here, don’t you interfere,” said Lem Lonsdale, stepping forward
threateningly.
“Huh! You want to fight, too?” demanded the fat boy, rolling up his
sleeves pugnaciously.
“No; I’ll settle with you some other time,” responded Lonsdale, with all
the dignity he could command.
“Come on, fellows. Let’s be getting on home,” exclaimed Rob, who had no
wish to prolong the affair.
“All right, I’m ready,” chimed in Merritt. “I don’t like the company
around here very well.”
Hunt still sat on the bank, nursing his jaw, and Rob began to be afraid
that he had hit harder than he had intended. He approached the other
with his hand outstretched.
“I’m sorry, Hunt,” he said, “but you brought it on yourself, old scout.
See here, let’s you and I get together and try to cement friendship
between the Hawks and the Eagles. It isn’t the scout game to sulk and
have ructions. Shake hands, won’t you, and we’ll call it off and run the
two patrols in harmony.”
Hunt heard him to the end with sullen apathy. No change of expression
crossed his face. As Rob concluded, however, he looked up and said:
“Are you through?”
“Yes, I guess that’s about all. Except that——”
“Except nothing!” almost screamed Hunt, springing to his feet, “I hate
you, Rob Blake. Ever since you got back from that fool western trip of
yours, you’ve tried to run the village. You won’t do it, see? Don’t talk
friendship to me. I’ll fight you to the last ditch, you see if I won’t.”
“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it,” said Rob, with a slight
sigh, “there’s nothing I can do. But it isn’t right that two patrols of
Boy Scouts should be at loggerheads, just because of your envious
temper—for that’s all it amounts to.”
Hunt, white-faced and trembling, was about to make another spring at
Rob, when Dale caught him and held him back.
“Don’t be a chump, Freeman,” he said in a low voice, “Rob Blake is more
than your match. Let him go. There are other ways to get at him.”
Rob and his chums did not hear this last remark, and bidding the others
“Good-night,” a politeness which was not responded to, they continued on
their way, leaving behind them three astonished and angry lads, and the
two youths who already had shown in numerous ways that they wished all
the harm possible to the Boy Scouts.
“Wonder how Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender got out of their trouble in
Arizona?” mused Merritt, as they hastened along through the
fast-gathering gloom.
“Don’t know,” responded Tubby, and neither could Rob furnish any
explanation. It was not until they entered the village that they learned
the true reason of the unscrupulous youths’ presence in Hampton. The
little place was a-buzz with it, and various plans of protest were
talked over. But, as is the case in most small towns in a matter of that
kind, no one was willing to “bell the cat,” namely, notify Jack’s and
Bill’s parents that the boys were not wanted. So they remained in town,
and their presence soon became unremarked. In the meantime, however, an
alliance had been formed between Freeman Hunt and his particular friends
and Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender, which boded ill for our lads. To the
warnings of their boy friends, however, Rob, Merritt and Tubby only
rejoined with laughter. They felt that they had nothing to fear from
such a company, in which, as the sequel will show, they were very much
mistaken.
On Rob’s arrival at home that night, he hastened to his room to remove
all traces of his encounter. Washed and dressed, he was about to descend
to the library, when, to his astonishment, he heard a strange voice
conversing with his father in that room. Yet there was something
familiar in the tones, too. Where had he heard it before? At last Rob
heard “Good-nights” exchanged between his father and the stranger, and
soon after came the swift “chug-chug” of an auto, which, apparently, had
been driven around the house, for the boy had not noticed it when he
returned home.
“Who was your visitor, father?” inquired Rob, as he sat down to dinner
that evening.
“Why, a Lieutenant Duvall, of the regular army,” was the rejoinder. “Do
you know him?”
Mr. Blake broke off abruptly, for Rob had given a cry of astonishment as
he heard the name.
“Know him? I should say so. Why, he’s the fellow who led those troops
into the Moqui Valley. Don’t you remember, when they were giving the
snake dance, and——”
“Oh, Rob, I cannot bear to hear about such things!” exclaimed his
mother. “You might have been killed by those Indians.”
“I guess they would have liked to do something like that,” responded
Rob, with a laugh, “but it all ended happily, mother.
“Why, as I said, he was the officer who led the cavalry to our rescue.
What can he be doing here?”
“Well, what about Lieutenant Duvall?” demanded his father.
“I do not know. He was very reticent about his business. He came to me
with a letter of introduction. You know, he has rented the old De Regny
place.”
“What, the old haunted villa north of here?”
“That’s the place,” rejoined Mr. Blake. “I can’t imagine why he wants
it, but, beyond saying that he was here on official business, connected
with aeronautical experiments, he would not give me any inkling of the
object of his occupancy of the place. His errand to me was to open an
account in the bank.”
“It is odd,” mused Rob. “The De Regny place hasn’t been occupied for
many years, has it, father?”
“Not since Napoleon was sent to St. Helena by the British, my boy.
General de Regny, who built the place, was one of the great French
leader’s most devoted marshals. After Waterloo, he came over here,
apparently at Napoleon’s own behest, and built this house on the
seashore. They say that secret passages run into the grounds from the
beach. If this is so, the entrances to them have never been found.”
“What did he want secret passages for?” asked Mrs. Blake, to whom the
story was comparatively new. Rob had already heard it in various forms
from a dozen sources about the village.
“Why, you see, it is always supposed that there was a plan on foot to
rescue Napoleon from St. Helena,” explained Mr. Blake. “In that case,
the supposition is, he would have made direct for the Long Island coast,
and have been landed in the De Regny home by means of the secret passage
from the beach. Of course, you recall the square, glass-sided
watch-tower on the summit of the house. That, I imagine, was placed
there so that the sea could be constantly scanned for a trace of the
approaching vessel bearing the rescued emperor. But, of course, he never
came, and in time De Regny died, and the property went to some heirs of
his in Virginia. What the government or Lieutenant Duvall can want with
it, is beyond my comprehension.”
After dinner Rob lost no time in slipping off to find Merritt and Tubby
Hopkins. By telephoning, he found out that they had both gone to the
home of Paul Perkins, who will be recalled as the winner of the model
aeroplane contest described in the first volume of this series, and the
aeronautical enthusiast of the Eagle Patrol.
Thither, accordingly, Rob hastened to find his friends and communicate
the surprising news concerning the old De Regny place. Paul’s mother
informed him that he would find the boys in the old wagon house.
“In the wagon house?” exclaimed Rob in some astonishment.
“Yes,” rejoined Mrs. Perkins. “Paul has some sort of contrivance out
there. Whether it’s to fly, crawl or walk, I don’t know. I only hope he
won’t break his neck or spile his pants with it, like he did the last
time he flitted on wings, and tried to flop from ther wagon house roof.”
“Did he break his neck, ma’am?” inquired Rob, with a perfectly serious
countenance.
“No, he did not,” innocently rejoined Mrs. Perkins, “but he tore his
pants suthin’ awful.”
Sure enough, as Rob approached the wagon house, he could see light
streaming from the wide chinks of the tumble-down place, and could catch
the sound of boyish voices within.
“And what is that, Paul?” he heard Merritt’s voice inquiring.
“That’s the propeller,” rejoined Paul, with a quiver of pride in his
voice.
“Say, where do you keep the grub?”
“That must be Tubby,” thought Rob, with a smile. Hastening forward, he
rapped at the door.
“Come in!” exclaimed Paul, as Rob, at the same instant, uttered the
patrol cry in a peculiar, low tone.
Rob pushed open the door, and saw before him, illuminated by the light
of a stable lantern, the most peculiar looking piece of machinery he had
ever set eyes on.
“What is it?” he gasped in astonishment.
“It’s a motor-scooter,” declared Paul, with the inventor’s pride
vibrating in his voice. He held the lamp aloft so that its radiance
streamed on a glittering, bewildering mass of bars, levers, connecting
rods and brace wires.