A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.
Rob woke late the next day. For a few minutes it seemed to him that he
must have dreamed all that had occurred the night before, but Lieutenant
Duvall’s voice from the room below speedily undeceived him. He recalled
it all now—how his father and an astonished crowd of townsfolk had met
them on their return from that wild auto ride; how, on the box being
opened, it had been found to contain the plans of the highly valued
invention, of the exclusive possession of which Japan had been so
anxious to deprive the United States.
“Rob, are you awake,” came his father’s voice up the stairway.
“Yes, and I’m ashamed of myself for sleeping so late,” was the lad’s
rejoinder. “Gee whiz, half-past nine! I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
The lad was bathed and dressed in record time, and in a few minutes over
the promised time made his appearance in the living-room. Lieutenant
Duvall rose and greeted him warmly, as he came in. He overwhelmed the
boy with his thanks and congratulations.
“It was a fine act—a splendid thing to do,” he said, enthusiastically.
“Mr. Blake, you certainly ought to be proud of such a boy. Rob, I have
sent a telegram to Washington to-day. Won’t you come out to the
experiment station with me and watch some flights while we wait for an
answer?” Then seeing the puzzled look on Rob’s face, he broke into a
smile.
“You see,” he said, “the telegram concerns you and your plucky young
chums. The Department will not pass such bravery by without taking
official notice of it.”
Rob colored with pleasure as he accepted the invitation. After a hasty
breakfast they set out in the officer’s auto. On the way Merritt and
Tubby were called for, and it was a happy party that went spinning over
the road toward the old mansion. The air was clear and still, the sea
smooth and sparkling under a cloudless sky, and in the atmosphere was
the promise of summer.
“A perfect day for flights,” said the lieutenant, “and a perfect day to
try a few bomb-dropping experiments.”
“Then you haven’t blown up the old Vesper yet?” said Rob.
“No. She holds together as if she were built of steel instead of wood. I
tell you what, we ought to make this day a memorable one; I’ve got an
idea in that direction.”
“What is it?” inquired Rob, watching the officer’s twinkling eyes.
“Well, you know, the French claim that the Englishman is wont to remark,
‘By Jove, a fine day; let’s go out and kill something.’ Now, I am going
to parody that and say, ‘It’s a fine day, let’s blow up something!’”
“Blow up the Vesper,” cried Tubby.
“That’s it. If we can hit her. I’ve a notion to try it myself. By Jove,
I will,” went on the officer, warming to his subject. “I want badly to
try out a new cordite bomb we’ve been making this winter, and here’s my
chance.”
“Good-bye, old Vesper,” breathed Rob, tragically, extending his arm in
the direction in which the two melancholy-looking bare masts of the
schooner could be seen looming up.
“Don’t say good-bye yet,” chuckled the officer; “I might miss her.”
The War Department had lost no time in replying to Lieutenant Duvall’s
message describing the boys’ courage and enterprise in securing the
papers stolen from the shattered safe. It was brought to the officer by
an orderly almost as soon as they reached the De Regny place.
“Shall I read it out?” asked the officer, with a smile. “It’ll make your
ears burn.”
The boys began to protest, much to the amusement of several officers
gathered in what had once been the dining room of the old mansion, but
Lieutenant Duvall nevertheless read in a loud, clear voice the
following:
“You are instructed to thank lads mentioned in dispatch on behalf of the
Secretary of War. Splendid work. More substantial reward (the Special
Honor Medal) will follow. Hills, secretary to the Secretary of War.”
“Wow!” breathed Tubby, and then turned very red as a perfect gale of
laughter followed his sincere expression of amazement, gratitude and
delight—all rolled into one.
“It’s wonderful,” breathed Rob.
“I can hardly believe it,” echoed Merritt, giving himself a
surreptitious pinch.
“Now, then, to lunch,” laughed the lieutenant, “and after that, good—bye
to the Vesper.”
“Good-bye to the Vesper,” echoed his brother officers, who knew of the
program for the afternoon.
* * * * * * * *
It was about two-thirty o’clock, and the sea was unrippled except for
the lazy Atlantic heave, when a small launch left Hampton Harbor and
sped eastward through the Inlet and then out into the open sea. She
rapidly skirted the coast and it was not long before the little craft
was past Topsail Island, and on the left hand of her four occupants, the
dark trees surrounding the De Regny mansion were visible.
Seaward from the desolate looking place, above which, however, the stars
and stripes floated with a bright dash of color, could be seen the two
bare masts of the wreck, and this was apparently the objective point of
the small launch, for as they neared her one of the men in her
stern-seat half rose and, pointing, said:
“There she is now. In half an hour we’ll know if Hank was telling the
truth.”
“How was he this morning when you called up the hospital?” asked Bill
Bender of the first speaker, who was Stonington Hunt.
The other shook his head.
“Bad,” he said; “I’ll tell you what it is,” he added with a crafty look
in his eyes; “if we find this money we don’t need to tell Hank anything
about it. We’ll just split it among ourselves. He’ll never leave that
bed in the hospital, and it’s just as well for us he won’t.”
“Hold on there a minute, Mr. Hunt,” said Bill Bender; “I won’t consent
to that. Hank was pretty square with us and we’ll be square with him.
He’ll get his share of the money if it’s there.”
“Don’t be foolish,” remonstrated Stonington Hunt, in his smooth, crafty
voice; “he cannot use it and we can. I tell you——”
“Look! Look!” interrupted Freeman Hunt, the youngest member of the
party, who had been sitting forward; “what’s that over there by the
mansion? See, it’s rising into the air!”
“It’s an aeroplane!” burst out his father; “bother it all, I hope they
don’t come flying out this way.”
“They’re a nuisance,” agreed Jack Curtiss, watching like the others the
graceful evolutions of the white-winged flying machine as it rose from
amid the dark trees and began to circle about like a gliding hawk.
All at once it made a lofty sweep and then started off in a straight
line toward the Vesper.
“Look, she’s coming out to sea!” cried Freeman, delightedly, lost in
admiration. “Say, she’s a dandy.”
“Why, the thing can fly,” admitted his father, grudgingly, “and—and—why,
what’s that fellow in her doing? He’s unfastening something. A black
object that is hanging down under the seat. It’s a round thing. It looks
like—like—_a bomb_! Great Scott! He’s going to blow the Vesper up.”
“Rot!” sneered Jack Curtiss, but his face was very pale. As for Bill
Bender and Freeman Hunt, they said nothing, but watched the aeroplane
soaring far above them with open mouths and staring eyes.
“Shout to him! Call to him!” raved Stonington Hunt. “Tell him there is
money on board her. Don’t let him blow that schooner up. Hey-y-y-y-y!”
The distracted man, crazed by the thought of being cheated out of his
golden prey at the last minute, stood erect in the boat and waved his
arms frantically, but if the figure guiding the flying machine even saw
him it gave no sign.
Now the aeroplane was right above the Vesper. The fascinated watchers in
the boat could see the flying man’s arm move. Then, like a tiny shoe
button—a little black shoe button—something dropped from the big, white
airship.
“Gone! Gone!” almost shrieked Stonington Hunt, as he saw.
“Shut up, can’t you?” growled Jack Curtiss, his eyes, like those of the
others, fixed upon the falling black sphere.
“Maybe it’s not a real bomb, just a practice one, and——” began Bill
Bender, hopefully, when there came a shock through the air that
threatened to drive their ear drums in. Sea and sky seemed to rock.
Before their startled sight the old wreck rose above the surface of the
water as if a giant hand had impelled her, and then settled back as
slowly as a harpooned whale. The next instant an immense cloud of vapor
arose and swelled to a waving, yellowish pillar in the still air. At the
same moment, a mighty reverberating “boom” reached their ears. Above the
destruction it had wrought the aeroplane wheeled like a phoenix.
As they gazed, its occupant waved his hand. To Stonington Hunt it seemed
that it was a mocking gesture. He fairly snarled, drawing back his lips
till his teeth were exposed like a wolf’s.
“Beaten again, and by blind fate, too!” he raved, tearing his hair in
his extravagant fury and doing all manner of frenzied things. Even Jack
Curtiss and Bill Bender were disgusted at his exhibition of childish
rage, and sternly told him to control himself.
As a sort of forlorn hope the launch was run up close to where the
Vesper had been last seen, but nothing remained of her but a few timbers
floating around on the surface. Some of them were blackened and
splintered where the cordite had riven them. The well-aimed bomb had
done its work well. The hunters for Hank’s secreted loot were cheated of
their treasure trove by the strangest combination of circumstances that
ever frustrated a knavish plot.
But Stonington Hunt had, as he had remarked, still a trump card to play.
And when the next day it came to his ears that the Boy Scouts had been
present at the destruction of the Vesper he was more determined than
ever to use it. Going to a small safe in his room, he drew from it
certain papers, armed with which, he started for Paul Perkins’s place.
He found Mrs. Perkins sweeping the front steps and greeted her with a
low bow and a flourish of his hat. Mrs. Perkins feared and disliked
Stonington Hunt, and would have avoided him if she could, but before she
could say anything the man had pushed through the gate and was beside
her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Perkins,” he said, with great effusiveness; “I have
called to give Paul one last chance to sell me the rights in that
machine of his.”
“He won’t do it, I’m sure, sir. There is no use your bothering,” said
Mrs. Perkins. “He—oh, here he comes now,” as Paul came round the corner
of the house; “Paul, here’s Mr. Hunt.”
“Oh,” said Paul, with no very noticeable cordiality in his tones.
“Yes, I’ve come to see if you are prepared to sell the machine to me
now,” said Hunt, with an odd ring in his voice.
“I cannot, as I told you before,” said Paul, firmly. “I have my reasons,
and——”
“I have mine,” snapped Hunt, a savage light appearing in his eyes. He
whipped a hand into his breast pocket and produced a handful of papers.
“Mrs. Perkins,” he demanded, “are you prepared to pay me the interest on
this mortgage? It amounts to $1,500.”
“Why—why,” stammered Mrs. Perkins, “you have no mortgage on this house.
It’s Landis, the real estate man. He——”
“I bought the mortgage from him, madam,” was the rejoinder, “and I am
now here to claim my property unless the interest is paid up at once. Of
course, I am willing to take the sole rights to that machine in lieu of
the interest. I think I’m giving you a good chance; are you willing to
take it?”
“I suppose I must,” hesitated Mrs. Perkins; “oh, dear, this is dreadful.
Paul, my boy, will you——”
But Paul had vanished mysteriously some minutes before.
“I don’t know what to do, sir,” she stammered, almost weeping, “I cannot
pay the mortgage now. Will you not wait?”
“Not another day, madam——”
“You don’t need to,” came a quiet voice from behind them. It was Paul.
With him were the three Boy Scouts.
“I’ll pay off that mortgage now, Mr. Hunt,” he went on as Rob, Tubby and
Merritt broke into broad smiles at the expression of baffled fury on
Hunt’s face.
“Why—what—I don’t——” he began.
“You don’t need to,” said Paul. “Mother, we are rich. Mr. Merrill has
disposed of the Motor-Scooter idea to the government. He sent me a check
for five thousand dollars yesterday.”
“Oh, Paul, you never told me!” cried his mother.
“I didn’t want to till I could be sure I wasn’t dreaming,” laughed Paul,
happily. “Now, then, Mr. Hunt, how much is that mortgage for, and we’ll
go before a notary and I’ll pay it up—every penny.”
Hunt’s hands quivered so that he could hardly control them. In his
agitation and rage he let fall to the ground one of his papers. It was
Tubby who picked it up. On it Mr. Hunt’s not overclean thumb had left a
large imprint. The fat boy’s eyes lit up as he gazed at it.
“Give that paper back, you young whipper-snapper!” demanded Stonington
Hunt.
“Not till I’ve compared it with something else,” was the quiet
rejoinder.
And very leisurely Tubby drew from his pocket something wrapped in
paper. This, on being uncovered, proved to be a bit of wood smelling
strongly of kerosene.
The rotund youth compared the thumb-print on the papers and the one upon
the bit of wood with quiet deliberation, while the others looked
breathlessly on. They could not imagine what was coming. Stonington Hunt
could, though, for his face was pale and the sweat stood on his brow in
shiny beads.
“Are you going to give that paper back?” he demanded in a hoarse voice.
“Yes, when I’ve got a warrant for your arrest for setting fire to Paul
Perkins’s wagon house,” was the quiet rejoinder.
“Why—I—you—what do you mean?” exclaimed Hunt, but his eyes were wild and
staring and he seemed about to fall to the ground.
“I mean that the thumb-print on this bit of oil-soaked wood and your
thumb-print on this paper are the same,” declared Tubby. “If you don’t
think so, we’ll go to the magistrate and let him decide.”
“Oh, no! Oh, no! Mercy!” howled Stonington Hunt, suddenly losing all his
bravado and sinking on his knees. “Be merciful. Don’t prosecute me.”
“Be quiet and listen,” said Tubby, in the same judicial voice, while his
companions gazed on, amazed at the stern expression of the ordinarily
careless, good-natured lad’s tones.
“Will you tear up that mortgage?”
“Yes, oh, yes! Give it to me and you will see.”
“Not so fast,” said Tubby, tearing off the bit of paper with the thumb
print on it; “I need this. Now, then, tear the rest up.”
“You won’t prosecute if I do?” wailed the groveling wretch.
“No,” promised Paul; “we’ve no wish to be hard on you, badly as you have
treated us.”
Hunt, with trembling hands, tore the paper into tiny shreds.
“You’d better burn those,” said Tubby, turning to Paul. “Now, then, Mr.
Hunt, you had better get out of here,” he went on to the unmasked
rascal. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, and thank you,” rejoined the humbled, quaking man in a trembling
tone. He started for the gate. As he reached it a boyish figure came
swinging along the street; it was Freeman Hunt.
“Why, hullo, dad,” he said, as he stopped, disdaining to notice the
boys; “how ill you look. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, my boy. Perhaps the sun is a little warm,” was the reply. “I
have a headache.”
“Well, you’d better come up to the house. Sister is starting for Maine
to visit those friends this afternoon. She wants to say good-bye to
you.”
“I will, my boy, and, Freeman, while I think of it, we may as well pack
up and go, too. The climate of Hampton does not agree with me.”
* * * * * * * *
Well, the tale is told. That little trip of Stonington Hunt’s extended
into weeks, and the weeks into months, and he never came back. Finally
his house was sold and the place knew him no more. In the meantime,
affairs at Hampton had been progressing much in the usual way. Paul, in
due course, received his other five thousand dollars, which was
deposited in the bank, the institution having been completely remodeled
in the course of repairing the damage wrought by the blowing up of the
big safe. And of the part the Motor-Scooter played in the conquest of
the Pole, the papers have told.
Nothing more was ever heard of Dugan or the Japanese, although it was
said some time ago in a Tokio dispatch that an American named Dugan had
been shot in a quarrel with one of the Mikado’s officers. As for Hank
Handcraft, he recovered from his lingering illness and was discharged
from the hospital, a wreck of the man he had been. On leaving the place
he declared his intention of going to see some relatives in England and
of spending the remainder of his days there, but whether he did so, or
from whom he procured the funds for the trip, the present writer is not
informed.
Perhaps some of my readers would like to know what became of Sim. Well,
Sim has a job doing odd tasks for Cap. Hudgins out on Topsail Island.
Previous to undertaking these duties for the good-hearted captain Sim
had another job, but he did not hold it long.
His employer, a well-to-do man in the town, met Sim the first morning he
came to work and thereafter did not see him for two whole days. Finally
Sim was discovered asleep in the barn on a soft truss of hay.
“Say, have you been sleeping ever since I hired you?” asked Sim’s new
employer indignantly.
“I do not come, sir, of a hard-working race,” rejoined Sim, still with
his old habit strong upon him; “your ‘ad’ said, ‘Boy wanted to sleep on
the place.’”
One afternoon in early June there were unwonted doings in Hampton. The
annual Firemen’s Carnival was on, with a parade of Boy Scouts as a
special feature. Big crowds lined the streets on foot, in buggies and in
autos to see the big parade pass under the flaunting banners and
decorations.
The cheers were loud and long for the firemen of the different villages
as they swung by with their equipment, but presently a shout went down
the line of spectators:
“Here come the Boy Scouts!”
What a shout arose then! The others sounded no louder than a pop-gun
beside a cannon, compared to it. Headed by a band playing a lively
quick-step the serried ranks of bright young faces and well set-up
figures went swinging by, keeping perfect step. At the head of the Eagle
division, with its green and black standard, came our young friends. On
the breast of each, besides their Red Honors, glittered three brand new
gold medals, the gift of the War Department.
“The Boy Scouts’ organization surely is a fine thing for those
youngsters,” remarked Lieutenant Duvall to Mr. Blake, as the two stood
outside the bank and watched the spectacle.
“It is, indeed,” agreed Mr. Blake. “It is going to make good men of
them, too,” he added.
And here, with the blare of martial music in our ears and before our
eyes the sight of row upon row of orderly, nattily-uniformed boys
swinging by to the lively air of “The Boy Scouts’ March,” we will for
the present take leave of our friends of the Eagle Patrol, to resume
their acquaintance in another volume of this series, in which their
further adventures and exciting doings will be related in full. This
volume I shall call, “THE BOY SCOUTS’ MOUNTAIN CAMP.”
THE END.
Boy Scout Series
[Illustration: THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE EAGLE PATROL]
By LIEUT. HOWARD PAYSON
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DICK KENT WITH THE MOUNTED POLICE
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By L. P. WYMAN, Ph. D.
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THE LAKEWOOD BOYS ON THE LAZY S
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BY MORGAN SCOTT
A series of real boys’ stories at the Oakdale Academy. Ben Stone, the
hero, wins his way under peculiar circumstances and against great odds.
Clean-cut stories of real experiences in athletics and sports of academy
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Copyright Titles
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THE GREAT OAKDALE MYSTERY
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Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard (or amusing)
spellings and dialect unchanged.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)