A VISITOR BY THE AIR ROUTE
When the boys awoke next morning the fire was still burning, though
there was not enough of it left to prevent a thin layer of ice forming
over the surface of the water in the barrel. Tom Reade slipped from his
bunk, drawing on shoes and trousers, and quickly placed a few more logs
over the embers. A few minutes after that it was warm enough for the
rest to slip out of their bunks and dress hurriedly--all except Hen
Dutcher.
Greg soon busied himself, tea-kettle in hand, with thawing the ice
around the bottoms of the sliding shutters.
"No tracks at the cook shack," announced young Holmes. "And say,
fellows, it has stopped snowing."
"Well, for once in my life," smiled Dick, "I think I've seen enough
snow. I just wonder how the folks in Gridley are getting through it."
"Oh, they must have the streets broken, after a fashion, and some sort
of paths on the main sidewalks," responded Tom Reade judicially.
All were now at the windows, looking out over the scene. At only two of
the windows, however, could a level view be obtained; the two others
were completely blocked by piled up snow. The rest of the windows could
be used for observation purposes when the Grammar School lads placed
boxes on which to stand.
"The snow looks soft yet," declared Dave.
"It is soft; you can see that in the way that the wind catches it up in
flurries," Dick argued.
"Then we can't get far in it to-day," decided Tom Reade. "We can't
travel far over the snow until we have a cold spell for twenty-four
hours that will freeze the top of the snow into a hard crust."
"When that crust comes we just will travel," muttered Dave.
"Getting tired of camp?" grinned Dalzell.
"No, Danny Grin; but you forget something."
"What?"
"We've got a duty to perform. As soon as we can get where there's a
telephone, we've got to send word to the Gridley folks that Mr. Fits is
in these parts."
"But Mr. Fits isn't here," Greg objected.
"That's so," Darrin admitted slowly. "And yet the rascal must be
somewhere around, for he couldn't get far in such a blizzard as we've
been going through."
"What I'm even more anxious about than Mr. Fits is telephoning the news
to the home folks that we're all safe here, and as snug and comfortable
as can be," Dick interposed. "Whee! But our folks must be worried about
us. They'll never let us go camping again in winter."
"Oh, I don't know about that," argued Dave. "If we only prove to them
that we can weather such a time as this, without sickness or disaster,
they'll be ready to believe that we can take care of ourselves anywhere
on earth."
"Why, there isn't anything very hard about taking care of ourselves
here," Dick continued. "All we have to do is to show a little industry.
We've got everything at hand that we could possibly need. But I wish the
home folks knew how comfy and happy we are."
"I'd like to see myself out of this," grumbled Hen Dutcher, lying
huddled in his bunk under the pile of overcoats. "Say, fellows, is it
warm enough for me to get up yet?"
As all of the real boys in the party were already up, none of them
thought it necessary to answer Hen, who presently slid out of his bunk
and began to dress rapidly.
"What are we going to have to eat this morning, and when?" Hen wanted to
know.
"I guess we'll have a light breakfast this morning," hinted Reade.
"Why?" demanded Dutcher, his jaw dropping.
"So we can have a better appetite for the turkey we brought along.
Fellows, don't you think we'd better eat that turkey to-day? It may not
keep."
"Turkey?" blurted Hen Dutcher, his eyes dancing with anticipated
pleasure. "I didn't know you had any grub as fine as that."
"I've been thinking," proposed Prescott, "that we might as well have
some of that turkey for breakfast this morning."
"Why, is it already cooked?" cried Hen.
"Oh, no," Dick admitted.
"Then let's have something else for breakfast and keep the turkey until
noon," suggested Dutcher. "I can't wait for my breakfast."
"What do you fellows say?" asked Dick, putting it to a vote, but
ignoring Hen. "Shall it be turkey for breakfast?"
"Turkey!" solemnly voted five Grammar School boys.
"I call it a shame to treat a fellow like this," grumbled Hen. "To make
a fellow wait so long for his breakfast when he's starving to death!"
But none of the others gave any sign that they heard. Dick went to a
shelf on which lay many packages of the food they had brought with them
two days before. Dick took down a plain little wooden box and stepped to
the table.
"Put on about eight eggs, and boil 'em hard, will you, Greg?" Dick
asked. "Tom might tackle the coffee-making this morning. Dan and Harry
can get potatoes ready."
"But where's the turkey, then?" queried Hen, watching Dick as he opened
the box.
"Right here," proclaimed young Prescott, removing the lid.
"Why, that's--that's codfish, salted and dried!" exploded Hen.
"Well, isn't codfish Cape Cod turkey?" demanded Reade, with a grin.
"Is that the only kind of turkey you have with you?" asked Hen.
"The only kind," smiled Dick. "Don't you like codfish, Hen?"
"Not a little bit," grumbled Dutcher.
"Then you can cut out breakfast, and you'll have a fine appetite at
noon," offered Dan consolingly.
"It seems to me that you fellows use me as meanly as you know how,"
flared Hen. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."
"We are," Tom assured the grumbler.
Though the codfish should have been soaked over night, Dick accomplished
much the same effect by repeatedly scalding it. Then he put it on to
cook in boiling water, and next made a flour sauce in the way that his
mother had patiently taught him. The hard boiled eggs, after being
cooled in cold water, were sliced up and put over the dish when it was
ready. This, with potatoes, bread and butter and weak coffee with
condensed milk, made a meal that satisfied all hands. Hen didn't like
the meal, but he ate more of it than any one else.
"What are we going to do to-day for fun?" Dan wanted to know as
breakfast drew to a close.
"Shovel paths and stock up with water and firewood, I guess," smiled
Dick.
"Pshaw! I'm sorry it has to be all work, and that we can't have any
fun," remarked Harry Hazelton. "I've just been longing to go hunting and
get a rabbit for a stew."
"We'll be here for days and days yet," answered Dick. "I guess we'll be
able to find plenty of fun before our camping frolic is over."
"It's fun, just being here and living this way," Darrin declared.
Something beat against one of the windows, causing the boys to look
around curiously.
"Just a twig blown off from some tree," declared Tom.
"Is it?" floated back from Greg, who had leaped up and was now hurrying
toward the window in question. "It's a pigeon--that's what it is. And
the poor thing looks perishing, too."
In truth Mr. Pigeon did seem to be about spent. The poor thing huddled
against the sash, as if trying to shelter itself from the biting wind
and the fine dust of blown snow.
"Bring the tea-kettle, some one," called Greg, and Dick did so.
"Pour the water on so that I can get the window open," Greg directed.
"Just enough to soften the ice so that the sash will move back. Be
careful not to let any of the hot water scald the pigeon's feet."
Working gently, in order not to alarm the spent bird, Dick and Greg soon
had the window open, and Greg drew in the all but frozen little flyer.
"Say, we can have pigeon stew, or pie, if anyone knows how to make a
pie," cried Hen Dutcher.
"You scoundrel!" breathed Greg fiercely. "Your stomach makes a brute of
you, Hen Dutcher!"
"Oh, what's the sense of being silly about nothing but just a bird?"
insisted Hen.
"I'll fight any fellow who proposes eating this poor little wayfarer,"
announced Greg.
"Whatcher getting mad about?" snapped Hen. "Pigeons are made just for
eating, and we can----"
"Hold this bird, Dan," urged Greg, passing the pigeon to Dalzell and
stepping briskly toward Hen, who, alarmed, retreated, protesting:
"Huh! What are you getting red headed about? Can't you stand a joke?"
"I don't like your style of jokes," retorted Greg, stopping the pursuit.
"Don't let me hear any more of 'em."
"In fact, Hen," added Tom, "your continued silence would be the finest
thing you could do for us."
"See here!" called Dan. "This is one of our own pigeons--right out of
dad's cote. This is the speckled one we call 'Tit-bit.'"
"Say, that seems almost like a letter from home, doesn't it?" asked
Dick, his face beaming. "We'll give our friend the best we have. Put the
little fellow in a box, in some soft stuff, not too close to the fire,
Dan. And I'll start to boil some of the corn meal. That'll make good
food for the little chap when he's feeling more like himself."
In less than half an hour Mr. Pigeon was feeling vastly better. He now
hopped about the place, using his wings every now and then in a short
flight. Dan was the only one who could get near the little creature
now. So it was Dalzell who caught the pigeon and fed it its breakfast of
corn meal mush when it was ready.
Soon after the pigeon took to flying more and more. He seemed attracted
towards the windows, flying straight at them three or four times.
"Your pigeon isn't showing good manners, Dan," teased Tom. "He is
showing as plainly as possible that he doesn't like this crowd."
"Most likely it's Hen he objects to," murmured Dalzell, with a grin.
"But I'll tell you what I think Tit-bit wants. He's warm, fed and feels
as strong as ever. What he wants, now, is to hit up a pace for Gridley
and get back into the cote with his mates."
"How long would it take him to get there?" wondered Tom.
"Why, something like ten or twelve minutes, probably," Dan answered.
"Whee! If we could make it that fast we'd be taking frequent trips,"
sighed Reade.
"I wouldn't make the trip more'n one way. I'd stay in Gridley after I
got there," grumbled Hen, but no one paid any heed to him.
"See here," broke in Dick suddenly, "if that pigeon wants to go home,
and is able to, why can't we make him take a message for us? I believe
we can--if some one at the other end would only see it."
"Dad always looks the birds over when he feeds 'em in the morning," Dan
declared.
"Wait until I get a piece of paper," rejoined Prescott, almost
breathless from the hold the idea had taken on him. He got the paper,
drew out a pencil, and sat down to write, calling off the words as he
wrote them:
"To the home folks. We're all here at the cabin, snug as can be, with
plenty of water, firewood and food, and having a jolly time. Don't worry
about us. We're having a jolly time."
"Tell 'em I'm here," begged Hen Dutcher. "My folks might like to know."
So Dick added that information and signed his name. Next he rolled the
paper up into a cylinder.
"Dan, catch that precious bird of yours," begged the young leader.
Dalzell presently accomplished that purpose. Dick tied a string around
the pigeon's neck, loosely enough not to choke the bird, and yet
securely enough so that the noose could not slip off. Then the paper
cylinder was made fast to the string.
"Open the window on the side towards Gridley, Greg," called Dick. "When
it's open, Dan, you give your pigeon a start."
As Dan let go the bird fluttered from the sill to the snow. Then, after
a moment, little Mr. Pigeon spread his wings and soared skyward. Soon
the boys had seen the last of the small traveler, still headed in the
direction of home.
"Our folks will soon have the news," declared Dan proudly.
"And, oh--hang it!" gasped Dick disgustedly. "I forgot to add even a
word about Mr. Fits!"
"Well, he isn't here with us, at any rate," Dave answered.