THE ASTONISHING WILLIAM
The echoes of many voices soon grew into such a roar that individual
words became indistinguishable. This babel of sound Bob Somers managed,
with some difficulty, to still.
“Well, what’s he written on the thing?” demanded Cranny, impatiently.
Much pushing and crowding followed, as Bob Somers turned the light of
his lantern full on the scrawling letters.
“Gee whiz, fellows, just absorb this!” he cried.
The crowd listened eagerly.
“What I think of--
“Bob Somers: not a bad sort. But if he can’t shoot any better than he
flies an aeroplane, birds and animalculæ are safe.
“Dick Travers: average kid.
“Sam Randall: almost ditto--a little less.
“Cran Beaumont: not enough paper to write my opinion on.
“Mr. Clifton----
“Dave Brandon: uncommonly lazy; pampered; needs ginger. A course in
live-wire action suggested. Can he write? Paint? No!
“Ha, ha! Isn’t it hot out in the moonlight?
“Mush is soft; and so are--but what’s the use?
“P. S. The mailed fist! It’s coming. If Cran isn’t recalled when Mr.
Beaumont gets my letter it will be a wonder. The combination of Mr.
Clifton, Lone Pine and longhorns has been too much--I have flown. Do
not look for me. Your detective abilities are not equal to unraveling
this mystery. Brain fag is bad.
“Yours, before the get-away,
“WILLIAM BRINTON SLOAN, P. G. S.”
“Great Scott!” howled Cranny. “My, but wouldn’t I like to punch that
little duffer!”
“And just wait till I meet him,” added Tom, his eyes fixed on the dash
which came after his name.
“And to think,” mused Cranny, “that we dropped down to the center of
the earth to get such a knock as this!”
“An average kid!” groaned Dick, looking around.
“Suspected it yourself, I guess,” observed Cranny. And, while the
echoes of boisterous laughter were reverberating, both Dick and Sam
could be seen standing silently and solemnly a little apart from the
group.
“Average!” repeated Sam, with a sudden thought. “I suppose he means an
average of ninety-five or over, same as we generally get at school.”
“And my artistic status has at last been established,” laughed Dave.
The boys stared hard into each other’s faces for a moment, then the
last angry expression vanished, and roars of merriment again thundered
through the passageway.
“My name isn’t on the list,” murmured Tim. “Can’t make out whether he
let me down easy, or handed over a dreadful slur--ignored me entirely,
you know.”
They followed Bob Somers back into the cellar, and then up-stairs,
breathing the sweet-scented air which came in through an open window
with sighs of relief.
“I’m bothered!” howled Cranny. “Where could the boy have gone?”
“Not out on the prairie alone,” declared Tom.
“He’ll be back at grub time,” predicted Dick.
“Nervy little scamp, after all,” mused Cranny, his face now wearing a
terrible frown. “I wonder if he really did write to dad. He could have
given the letter to one of the cowboys.”
“I’ll bet he has,” said Tom, cheerfully.
“You chaps get something to eat while Sam and I take a look around,”
suggested Dick, with an innocent expression.
“Well, did you ever!” roared Tom, indignantly. “Why, it’s your turn to
cook.”
This sad fact was duly impressed upon Dick Travers’ mind by Cranny, who
seized him by the collar and forcibly directed his steps toward the
kitchen.
During the preparation of the meal, the others scouted in various
directions, going far beyond the stockade walls. A faint glimmer of
daylight still lingered on a high bank of clouds in the east; the
silent plains would soon be bathed in the pale rays of the moon, now
a trifle less than half full. Shadowy groups of cattle were browsing
amidst the buffalo grass, or contentedly resting.
Not a sign of Willie Sloan anywhere! That was the report of each
scouting party.
The swinging lamps above the table threw a glare of light over highly
disturbed countenances. It did not seem possible that Mr. Beaumont’s
ward could actually have had the courage to run away; but as time
rolled on, the boys were obliged to reluctantly reach this conclusion.
“What shall we do?” asked Tim.
“Telephone to Circle T; perhaps he went back there,” answered Bob.
Cranny Beaumont, acting upon this suggestion, soon learned that neither
Mr. Follett nor any of his men had seen Willie Sloan.
“My, but this does make me tired,” sniffed Cranny. “Now Mr. Follett is
all worked up about it.”
“By this time to-morrow we’ll probably have Willie with us again.” Dave
spoke in consoling tones.
“We certainly can’t do another thing to find that chap to-night,” said
Sam. “Let’s make the best of it. Bet he’s just hiding somewhere.”
“It’s a fine night for taking observations of the stars,” remarked
Dave. “Suppose we carry the telescope up on the roof?”
“Good scheme,” approved Bob.
Thereupon they ascended to the second floor, in a few moments reaching
a storeroom, where a ladder rested against a trap-door. The stout boy
was active enough when it came to doing anything he particularly cared
about, so it took him but a short time to get the telescope and stand
in position on the roof.
In pointing the tube from one star to another, or over the almost
limitless expanse of nature, and picking out from the obscurity groups
of longhorns or clumps of trees, the boys were able to partly ease
their minds.
For about an hour they kept it up, then, one by one, descended to their
rooms, where before long all were sound asleep.
Tom Clifton finally awoke with a start.
The sound of a bell, ringing crisp and sharp, came to his ears. Tom
hastily threw aside his blankets and rose to a sitting position.
“Goodness gracious!” he breathed excitedly. “It’s the ’phone
down-stairs, sure enough!”
The summons, singularly clear, in the dense silence of the night, was
ringing continuously.
“Bob!” cried Tom, scrambling to his feet--“I say, Bob!”
Bob Somers opened his eyes.
“Eh, Tom?” he queried.
“Don’t you hear that bell?”
“Well, I should rather say so.”
The big room looked weird and dismal, with the greenish moonlight
streaking across the rough board flooring and showing in queer-shaped
patches on the opposite wall.
Bob listened intently, as he jumped up, struck a match, and proceeded
to light the lantern.
“Mighty odd, Tom--unless it’s about Willie,” he said. “No; don’t awaken
Dave.”
The two tiptoed down-stairs, Tom feeling decidedly creepy sensations
coursing along his spine.
The bell, which had stopped for an instant, started up afresh as they
entered the room. Bob Somers made a dash toward the instrument, and
took the receiver from the hook.
“Hello, hello!” he called, in anxious tones.
“Hello, hello!” came an answer. “Ha, ha!”
It was a familiar voice.
“Willie--Willie Sloan!” cried Bob. “Where in the dickens are you,
Willie?”
“Ha, ha! Did you fellows get my note, Somers?”
“Yes--yes!”
“Which one was the maddest?”
“Oh, quit that, Willie. Tell me where you are.”
“In a corkin’ nice room. But you wouldn’t like it--hasn’t got a single
cobweb; can’t write your name on the dust, either. Say----”
“Are you actually at Border City?” broke in Bob.
A squeaky laugh came distinctly over the wire.
“Got the best in the Carroll Inn. Oh, but don’t I feel sorry for you
poor chaps? How is Lone Pine, an’ longhorns? Do you believe in the
recall of Cran Beaumont? What’s the Referendum, anyway?”
“Did you walk all the way across the plain, Willie?”
“Sure! Every time I thought of Mr. Clifton it made me jump ten feet.
Ha, ha! Has he grown any since I left?”
“We’re coming over after you to-morrow, Willie.”
“But you won’t get William Brinton Sloan, P. G. S. I declare war.”
“We’ll try our arbitration board, then,” laughed Bob.
“Won’t do a bit of good.”
Just as Bob began to speak again, a peculiar buzzing sound came over
the wire. It was broken by a jumble of words and occasional little
crackles, and his energetic calls brought forth no response.
“Bill has evidently hung up the receiver,” remarked Bob; “he has said
enough and cut us off sharp; we are probably being laughed at.”
“Well, isn’t that chap the queerest ever!” cried Tom. “Why, he must
have a bit of courage, after all.”
“Plenty of it,” smiled Bob. “It’s a big relief to know the lad’s all
right. Who would ever have thought he’d do a trick like that?”
“Not I, for one. Won’t Cranny and the others be surprised?”
“Well, rather. No, Tom; we won’t wake ’em up--the news will keep. Queer
they didn’t hear that bell.”
The two, talking in low tones, climbed softly up-stairs and into their
room. Then, wrapping themselves in their blankets, they were soon
unconscious of either time or place.
In the morning, the news created a great sensation.
“Amazing!” was the word which followed a long-drawn-out whistle from
Cranny.
Dick looked puzzled.
“I can hardly believe it,” he murmured. “Willie seemed so all-fired
afraid of those longhorns.”
“Well, he did it, anyway--actually walked across the plains.”
“I’m the I-told-you-so fellow,” laughed Dave. “Knew there was a lot in
him.”
Cranny reflected.
“Fellows,” he presently observed, “we ought to teach him a jolly good
lesson.”
“How?” asked Sam.
“Why, he has only a few dollars; let him alone for several days, an’
he’ll wake up an’ be beggin’ us to trot over an’ get him.”
“I don’t know about that.” Dave shook his head. “He’s really a brave
little chap.”
Cranny began pacing up and down the room.
“Fellows,” he said, “I’ll have to get busy soon, or else the ‘mailed
fist’ may be something more than a joke.” He laughed dryly. “But I want
to have a bit o’ fun first. Let me manage this affair.”
And the others agreed.
An hour later, Bob took his place on the “Ogden II,” and, with Cranny
Beaumont as his passenger, started off. By this time, all but Dave had
saddled their bronchos and were ready for a canter across the plains.
The stout boy waved his hand to the horsemen, then waited until the
biplane had soared far off.
“I’ll do a bit of reading first,” he reflected, “and afterward take a
squint through the telescope.”
So Dave ambled back into the house, selected a book, settled himself in
the most comfortable chair, and prepared for unalloyed pleasure.
A few minutes later, the telephone bell rang sharply.
“Goodness! I can’t rest even a second,” grumbled Dave.
He lumbered slowly over, and answered the summons.
“Is that Lone Pine Ranch?” came in a crisp, businesslike voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“This is Major Warfield Carroll.”
“Oh, yes! What can I do for you, Major Carroll?”
“I want to relieve your mind of any anxiety regarding Willie Sloan.”
“I’m very glad indeed to hear that.”
“He has been with me at the hangar all morning. I can tell you he’s
a bright lad--something quite remarkable. I only hope, however, that
it may not be a week or more before I can find some of my tools--he’s
quite interested, you know.”
“Eh?” exclaimed Dave, in surprise. Then, feeling quite sure that the
Major was delivering himself of a gentle sarcasm, he began to smile
broadly.
“Mr. Follett knows that he is here, so you boys needn’t bother about
him for a while. Now, is Doctor Clifton there? You’re in his charge, I
suppose?”
Dave nearly fell backward from the telephone.
“The little scamp!” he muttered.
“Hello, hello!” came from the receiver; “I don’t seem able to catch
your answers very clearly. Please tell the Doctor not to worry about
the lad’s absence.”
“All right, sir,” answered Dave, whose smile was rapidly becoming
broader.
“He intends to send you a letter by one of the cow-punchers. Good-bye!”
“Odd--odd--odd!” reflected Dave. “Now, is there another grand old
rumpus coming--or what? Guess the Major hasn’t learned to wear a
‘don’t-touch’ look, like the Ogdens. Quite a surprise, this.”
Dave picked up his book, reseated himself, and, with his feet
comfortably disposed on a stool, began to read.
A pleasant breeze came in through a window close by; sometimes the
lowing of a distant longhorn was borne to his ears; but otherwise the
silence seemed oppressive. Conditions were ideal for lulling the stout
lad into a blissful slumber.
Dave promptly capitulated, and the book dropped from his hand.
When he once more sat up, it was only because two boys, talking in a
lively fashion, had entered the room.
“Caught you at it again,” laughed Bob.
“Well, I certainly had an uncommonly fine nap,” admitted Dave, with a
yawn. “Have a nice trip, fellows?”
“Didn’t we!” cried Cranny. “It was certainly a corker. The ‘Ogden II’
sailed just like a bird. Hey! Something to tell us, Dave? What is it?”
Dave explained.
“Ha, ha--ho, ho! That Major’s a smart chap, all right,” laughed Cranny.
“Sized up the kid already! Willie a bright lad! Ho, ho! Anyway, it’s
bully news. I’ll stay here for about three days longer.”
“And didn’t you really make a landing at Border City? I had an idea
you would come back and tell me all about things.”
“We sailed right over top o’ the big Noah’s ark, but I wasn’t going
to do anything that might spoil those great three days,” said Cranny.
“Besides, we saw a lot of little specks on the ground, and made up our
minds that the smallest was Willie.”
“You’re a grand guardian,” laughed Dave.
Within a short time, the steady, rhythmic sound of hoof-beats floated
into the room--the others were returning. It didn’t take them long to
stable their bronchos and race inside.
“Great Scott! Major Carroll ’phoned you--says William is with him?”
cried Tom, in astonishment. “The nerve of him!--I mean William, of
course.”
“I’m tired of Willie as a subject of steady conversation,” growled
Cranny.
“Forget him for a few days--do, please,” suggested Tim.
“I’ll make it three,” said Cran.
The only other event of interest that day was a short visit from big
Sam Skillet, foreman of Circle T Ranch.
“This here b’ilin’ weather ain’t a-goin’ ter last much longer,
youngsters,” he announced, in his tremendous voice, as he was about to
leave.
“You’ve got a weather eye, I s’pose,” grinned Cranny.
“I sartinly have; an’ it’s always open. So-long!”
Sam’s prediction proved to be correct. Toward evening the sky was
entirely covered with grayish clouds, while a strong breeze blew over
the great stretch of rolling prairie.
On the following day, as the threatening weather continued, Bob Somers
decided to test his skill as an aviator under more difficult and trying
conditions by making one short flight, with Tim Lovell as a passenger.
“It’s the kind of work that needs a steady hand, Dave,” he said, on
landing, “but I have the hang of the thing pretty well, now.”
“I believe you could manage the ‘Ogden II’ in a hurricane,” laughed Tom.
Several days later, while all were seated around the breakfast table,
the ring of the telephone broke in upon their conversation. Bob Somers
sprang to answer it.
The boys immediately noted by the sound of his voice that he seemed
considerably surprised.
“What is it?” demanded Cranny.
Bob turned his head away from the mouthpiece.
“There’s a pretty stiff breeze blowing, eh, fellows?” was his
unexpected question.
“Yes--yes! Why?” cried Dick.
Bob, without replying, hastily turned to the instrument again.
“All right, sir; we’ll keep a sharp lookout, and ’phone you if we see
it,” he said. “Good-bye.”
“Well?” queried Tim Lovell, animatedly.
“Mr. Ogden ’phoned from the hangar at Border City that Major Carroll
has made an ascent in his dirigible.”
“He’s done that before,” exclaimed Dave, wondering at Bob’s expression.
“Is anything the matter?”
“Mr. Ogden fears there is something wrong with the air-ship,” answered
Bob.