DEFEATING THE FROST
Out across fields and woods, the Forecaster leading on the old mule, the
boys followed the direction of the kite. Bob's pocket compass held them
true to their course and Tom's keen sense told of any shift of the wind.
The boys ran fast, the mule ran faster, and Lassie and Rex ran faster
still. Only Anton, the crippled lad, had stayed behind.
Midway up the first hill, Fatty dropped out. His intentions were good,
but he was no match for the others in running. Monroe, the athlete of
the group, was swinging along in light springy strides; Bob, the silent,
ran heavily and mechanically; while Tom, eager for the recovery of his
kites, kept to the front with the other two.
The Forecaster checked his mule and let the boys come up to him.
"It's no use trying to outrace the kites, boys," he said, "they're
dropping in any case. But as they were three miles up, they were also
three miles to leeward, and as they won't fall like a stone but float
down gently, it'll be another mile or two at least before they strike
ground. So you've a five mile run ahead of you and you'd better settle
down into a jog trot, for you can never keep up this pace."
The faces of the boys fell at the thought of a five mile run, for while
they were all strong and vigorous, cross-country running was not one of
their regular sports.
Ross turned to the younger boys of the party, calling them by name.
"You'd better drop out," he said kindly; "you won't be able to keep it
up and there's no use getting yourselves worn out and then having to
walk back, half dead. Fred," he continued, turning to the
editor-in-chief, "you'd better quit, too."
"Not much," answered Fred, "I've got to write this up for the _Review_."
The Forecaster smiled. He liked pluck.
"All right, my boy," he said, "come along, if you want to. Still, I
think Ross is right."
Over fields and woods they ran, but it was an hour before Bob, lean,
wiry and silent, pointed to the sky.
"Kite!" he said.
The weather expert pulled up the mule and drew out his field glasses.
"Yes," he said, "that's the string of kites, sure enough. But they're
going up, boys, not coming down."
"Going up, sir?" exclaimed Tom. "They couldn't be! They must be coming
down. All the kites were out of sight when the wire broke."
"They have come down, of course," the Forecaster replied, "but they're
certainly going up now. And, what's more, they're going up fast."
"But they can't be!" the boy protested. "The wire isn't holding on to
anything."
"How do you know?" the meteorologist rejoined. "Perhaps the wire has got
foul of something. I remember, once, how Eddy of Bayonne had a string of
nine kites get away from him. They crossed the water between New Jersey
and Staten Island. The owner had to take a train and then a small boat
after them. On Staten Island he took another train and then a street
car, and another street car, all the time hanging out of the window, to
keep track of the fugitives, which were sailing away merrily."
"Chasing a kite with a train and a street-car sounds funny," puffed
Tom.
"On Staten Island," the Forecaster continued, "the wire caught in a
telegraph post, and, of course, as soon as the wire held, the kites took
the proper angle to the wind and shot up in the air again. Before Eddy
could reach the place, the wire chafed through and broke again, but the
kites had risen another mile or more. Falling diagonally, they crossed
the lower end of New York Bay toward Long Island. Eddy had to take a
ferry boat, next, to chase the runaways. He crossed to New York and took
the elevated railroad to Brooklyn. An hour later, he caught sight of the
kites again. One of the groups had reached the ground and dragged. That
sent the other six up in the air again. They flew over the whole of
Brooklyn and fell again, finally entangling themselves in a telephone
wire. When the owner finally reached them, after a chase of thirty
miles, in two States, three of the kites, still undamaged, were flying
safely in the air, never having come to ground at all."
"I hope mine aren't smashed," Tom said eagerly. The story had given him
hopes.
On the boys pounded. Fred was at the end of his strength. Ross, himself,
was almost done out, but he felt that, as head of the League, he ought
to go on. Seeing, however, that the editor-in-chief might really hurt
himself unless he gave in, Ross decided to stop. He knew that Fred would
give up if he did.
"I've had enough, Fred," he said at last. "Let the other three go ahead.
We can't hope to beat Monroe."
The editor stopped, willingly enough. He looked a little longingly at
the other three, as they ran on.
"I'd have liked to be there, so as to write it up," he announced
wistfully.
"You can't be everywhere, Fred," Ross answered, and the two boys turned
homewards.
Monroe, Bob, and Tom, with Monroe leading, swung on their way. Twenty
minutes more passed. Tom's heart was beating like a trip-hammer and
there was a drawn look about his face which showed that he was nearly
done. Bob, who had not uttered a word since he first saw the kite, and
who had not varied his pace by a fraction since he began, was jogging
along as though he were a machine. Monroe still ran springily and with
the jauntiness which betokened the practised runner.
Then, suddenly, the Forecaster pointed ahead.
"There's something caught in that tree!" he said.
In another minute the kite wire could be seen. It had hooked its coils
into a bale of barbed wire, and in trying to lift this had entangled the
bale in the branches.
As though he were starting for a hundred yard dash, Monroe sped ahead.
Grimly, Bob tried to catch up to him, but it was like a bull-dog chasing
a deer. Tom, his face in the tense grin of exhaustion, struggled
bravely, but dropped behind step by step.
Monroe was within fifty feet of the tree when a sudden thought struck
him. He slowed down, and as Bob caught up to him, said in a low voice:
"Tom's made a great run! Let him be the first to get there."
Bob nodded.
As the pace slowed down, Tom, his gait a little staggering, caught up
with the other two and passed them. He reached the tree first and looked
up.
"My kites!" he cried. "And I got the amateur record!" and he collapsed
on the ground at the foot of the tree, worn out but supremely happy.
With the approach of winter, kite-flying became less popular as a
sport, but two or three times a month Tom sent up one of his kites with
the meteorograph, and the observations were faithfully forwarded to
Osborne, whose original gift of the two kites had been the stimulus to
the Mississippi League of the Weather.
The first few flakes of snow turned the attention of the boys to an
entirely new line of weather observations. Many and many a time had the
boys noticed the strange shapes of snow-flakes, but without paying much
attention to them. On the first Saturday after the light snow-fall,
however, three different boys brought in rough drawings of star-like and
feather-like snow forms that they had noticed.
"I've been wondering," said Anton, thoughtfully, "what makes snow-flakes
take those shapes? Hail comes down in lumps, and rain-drops must be
round, because when you see the first heavy drops of a shower they make
round blobs on the ground with pointed splashes at the side."
"A snow-flake," the meteorologist replied, "is a collection of icy
crystals. If you could look at one under the microscope, Anton, you'd
see that every little projection that goes to make up the shape of the
flake, is a six-sided crystal. You've eaten barley-sugar from a string
some time, haven't you?"
"Sure!" said several of the boys, and one added, "Mother often makes
it."
"How does she make it?" queried the Forecaster.
"Melts up some sugar and water and, as when it begins to cool off, she
hangs a string in the middle of the pot and the sugar settles on that."
"It settles in regular shapes, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, those are crystals. When water cools into ice, boys, it does the
same thing. Haven't you sometimes seen, after a cold night, a lot of
needles shooting out from the sides from a puddle?"
"Yes, sir, often."
"Those are all six-sided crystals. Frost on the window pane is made in
the same way. All those designs that look like lace work or trees or
ferns are six-sided crystals produced by water-vapor, in the air,
cooling and crystallizing on the cold glass. Ice crystals grow from each
other quite readily. This is called twinning."
"But why are they always so regular?"
The Forecaster shook his head.
"You're always expecting everything to be regular, Ross," he said.
"They're not regular at all. There are thousands of different forms. The
United States is fortunate in having one man who's the world's expert on
snow crystals, and he examines and photographs thousands every year and
adds, perhaps, two or three new examples each season."
"Who's that, sir?" asked Fred.
"Wilson A. Bentley, of Jericho, Vermont," the Forecaster answered. "He's
made thousands of photographs of snow crystals through a microscope.
What's more, he's done it for the love of the work. Why don't you send
him a copy of the _Review_, Fred? I'm sure he'd like to see it. Perhaps
he might send you some prints of his snow crystals. He'd appreciate a
plate of Cæsar's sunsets and Ralph's clouds, I'm sure."
"I'll send them to him right away," the editor answered.
"Why is it," queried Anton, "that when snow-flakes fall slowly and only
a few of them at a time, they are big, but when there's a heavy
snow-storm the flakes are small?"
"Because they are manufactured in different layers of the air," the
Forecaster answered, "in the upper air, eight or ten miles up, where
the faintest cirrus clouds are, they are not flakes at all, but tiny
needle-like crystals, called spicules. In the depth of the Arctic
winter, near the North Pole and especially on the Greenland ice-cap--one
of the coldest regions of the world--the wind is full of these spicules,
which one can't very well call snow.
"Snow-flakes that come from the cold regions of the air, three or four
miles high, generally have a solid form. All, of course, show the
six-sided form of the snow crystals. Being smaller and heavier in
proportion to their surface they fall more quickly. In the layers of the
atmosphere, one or two miles high, where the air is not as cold and
where the content of water vapor is higher, the flakes have more
opportunity to grow as they slowly sink through the air. Snow-flakes
that have been formed only a short distance above the ground become
large and feathery, the kind of which northern peoples say that 'the old
woman of the sky is plucking her geese.'"
"I suppose, in the northern part of the country, sir," Ralph suggested,
"snow has to be measured, as well as rain."
"Certainly," the Forecaster answered, "otherwise we wouldn't be able to
tell the precipitation of a region at all. There is a regular instrument
for it, called a shielded snow-gauge. This is like a rain-gauge, boys,
only it stands ten or twenty feet above the ground, to avoid surface
drifting. The snow caught is melted and expressed as so many inches of
precipitation. Sometimes the depth of snow is measured by thrusting a
measuring stick down to the ground.
"Of course, that's not nearly all that the Weather Bureau has to do with
snow. In the northern states, especially of the Pacific Coast, snow
surveys are of great importance. The Weather Bureau often sends men to
determine the amount of snow that has fallen over a given area, in order
to find out how much water may be expected. This is needed in flood
forecasts and irrigation projects. Some of our men, boys, can tell you
thrilling tales of their expeditions on snow-shoes up snow-covered
slopes where there is never a trail.
"Railroads whose tracks run through the regions of heaviest snowfall
build snowsheds to keep their lines from being buried in avalanches, and
these sheds are built to withstand pressures calculated by the Weather
Bureau. Where drifting occurs and the railroad tracks are being covered
with the drifting snow, it is the combined snow and wind records of the
Weather Bureau which form the basis for the work of the
rotary-snow-plow.
"Even so, boys, the value of the work of the Weather Bureau in snow
surveys is very small compared with the importance of frost warnings.
These save the country tens of millions of dollars every year,
especially in the fruit sections."
"You mean by smoking them?" queried Ross. "Father heard about that a
couple of years ago and bought a lot of fire-pots for his orchard."
"How did he succeed?" asked the Forecaster.
"He didn't succeed at all," the boy answered. "There were only two bad
frosts that spring, and both times the evening before had been so warm
that no one suspected that there would be frost before morning. The one
night that he did start the fires, it turned warm towards midnight and
we wouldn't have needed the fires any way. Old Jed Tighe, who's got the
biggest fruit farm here, has made fun of Father's fire-pots ever since."
"Now, if your father had received the Weather Bureau's frost warnings in
advance," the Forecaster said, "he wouldn't have wasted fuel on the
night that there wasn't a frost and he wouldn't have let his crop freeze
on the nights that the temperature really did drop below the danger
point. For example, boys, if the League of the Weather had been in
existence at that time and could have given good frost warnings, all
that crop would have been saved, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, sir," said the boys, "it would."
"Of course," the Forecaster continued, "a really progressive
fruit-grower ought to make himself partly independent of the Weather
Bureau. He can put up frost-alarm thermometers."
"What are they, sir?" asked Anton.
"They're thermometers with an electrical attachment, something on the
principle of the thermostat, which you see nowadays in big buildings. A
thermostat is electrically connected with a tiny lever, and when the air
of a room gets to a certain heat, the increasing temperature operates a
lever and closes the steam pipe which brings the heat. When the
temperature falls below a certain point, the lever is released and the
steam rises again. The same principle is used as a fire alarm. When the
air inside a building rises to a point hotter than it could naturally
do, it operates a lever which rings an alarm bell. The frost
thermometer acts exactly on the same principle. When the temperature of
the air, near a fruit orchard, falls to within three or four degrees of
the point at which the fruit will be harmed, the fall of the mercury
breaks an electric circuit which starts an alarm bell ringing in the
owner's house, perhaps a half mile away."
"I've been wondering," began Anton in his meditative way, "whether it
wouldn't cost more to heat all the out-of-doors than it would be to lose
some of the fruit."
"You haven't got the idea of it at all," the weather expert said
briskly. "It's got nothing to do with heating the whole of
out-of-doors."
"Then what are the fires for?"
"Just to heat a very small section of the air on the ground. Don't
forget, boys, that a fruit tree ten feet high may have all the fruit on
its lower branches, up to five or six feet, absolutely killed off, while
the top branches are unharmed."
"How's that?" queried Ross in surprise. "I thought frost came down from
on top, and that the higher up you went the colder it would be."
"Not at all," the weather expert answered. "Frost comes from down below.
When the air is still and clear, the earth loses heat by radiation. The
heat goes up and up and through the air to higher levels, the cold earth
cooling the air below. Therefore, on a frosty night, in a region where
frosts are rare, or at a time of year when frosts are few, a still clear
night will cause a belt of cold air perhaps only a few inches in depth,
perhaps ten or twenty feet in height, this belt being several degrees
colder than the air overhead.
"Now, Ross, you can see that to light huge fires, with the intention of
warming up all the air, would be foolish and unnecessary. All that is
needful is to heat this lower cold belt of air, a few feet in depth, and
only to heat it the three or four degrees necessary to bring it to the
warmth of the air above."
"But suppose a wind comes up and blows the heat away?" asked Anton.
The Forecaster smiled at the question.
"If a wind comes up," he answered, "you wouldn't need to use any heat at
all, because the wind would mix the warmer air overhead with the cooler
air below and there couldn't be any killing frost."
"But doesn't it cost an awful lot?"
"It costs less than to lose your crop," the weather expert replied.
"Usually you can figure that a frosty night will take a gallon of oil
per tree, or from twenty to twenty-five cents. In a fruit growing
section a grower is unlikely to have more than four or five still,
freezing nights a year when his crop may be ruined by frost, so that he
will spend a dollar or so per tree in protecting his orchard. As there
are few fruit trees which bring in a profit of less than ten dollars
during the season, and some a great deal more--according to the nature
of the crop--the proportionate expense of heating is small compared with
the amount of fruit saved."
"Then you think that heating an orchard will save the fruit?"
"Absolutely without any question," the weather expert answered. "And, if
the fruit-grower will keep in close touch with the Weather Bureau, he
will know when precautions are necessary. Of course, boys, it's
especially important for this work that there are a number of
co-operative observers, because frost is not a widespread general
phenomenon. You could have a fearful killing frost down in the hollow
where Anton's house is, or in the low ground near your house, Ross, and
still Tom's place, on that little hill, would be quite safe. One of the
things that the League of the Weather ought to be able to do this winter
and spring is to see that frost is fought. Even when your fathers
haven't got regular oil-pots, boys, a few smudges with heavy smoke,
drifting over the orchards or the truck fields, if started early enough
in the evening may check a freeze."
"Why, sir?" asked Ross. "Smoke isn't hot."
"No, my boy. But you remember that I told you that the cold was caused
by the radiation of heat from the earth escaping into the air and
through it. If there's a steady layer of smoke, like a blanket, floating
across the land, the heat radiating from the earth will not have a
chance to escape to the upper air. It will stay in the lower layer of
the air and thus keep it from dropping to the killing temperatures of a
true freeze. That's what the Indians of the pueblos used to do."
In the mild winters and early springs of Issaquena County, there seemed
little reason for the boys of the League to trouble themselves with
frost warnings, but, at the Forecaster's urgency, the boys kept wide
awake for it. It happened, though, that the lads had talked so much
about their frost protection plans that several of the farmers decided
to get some oil-burning fire-pots for use that spring, in the event of a
freeze. Jed Tighe, however, one of the few people of the neighborhood
who had shown but a perfunctory interest in the League, laughed to scorn
the idea of buying the fire-pots, as Fred had suggested in a recent
issue of the _Review_. Even Jed Tighe read the little sheet every week,
in spite of his alleged scornfulness.
One afternoon, when Ross was over at the club-house, where he spent so
much of his spare time, Anton pointed out that the conditions were ripe
for a killing frost.
"The hottest to-day was sixty-two degrees," he said, "and you remember
Mr. Levin told us that one wasn't ever safe unless the maximum was
sixty-four. There's not a cloud in the sky anywhere and there's
practically no wind, and what there is, Tom told me over Bob's wireless,
is from the northwest, and that's the worst quarter. I was just going to
take the dew-point when you came in."
"Let's do it now, Anton," said Ross. "Got the cup?"
For answer the crippled lad took down from the shelf a small tin mug. It
was already bright and shining, but he polished it until it looked like
silver.
"I've got the jug of ice-water ready," he said.
Pouring some tap water into the cup, and filling it about one third
full, he began to stir it round and round with a thermometer. The
mercury in the tube quickly dropped, until it read 50°, showing the
temperature of the water.
"Now, Ross," said Anton, "pour in the ice-water slowly."
Ross picked up the pitcher and began to let the water trickle in a tiny
stream into the bright tin cup. Anton went on stirring.
Steadily the mercury descended in the tube as the water in the cup grew
colder and colder. Ross poured in more and more slowly. Then suddenly,
quite suddenly, while both boys were watching, the brightness of the tin
cup clouded over, as though with a sudden fog. Anton drew out the
thermometer and looked at it.
"The dew-point's only thirty-four," he cried, "and as we've got to
figure frost at three or four degrees lower, it'll be so cold that there
won't be any fog to stop a freeze. Ross, it's just the night for a
killing frost. What do you think we'd better do?"
The older lad hesitated.
"If you don't mind, Anton," he said, "I'll stay to supper, and we'll see
what your night observations say."
By evening the threats of a frost were even more definite and the two
boys consulted what had best be done.
"I can easily get Father to start his fire-pots," said Ross, "we got
them all fixed up this winter. Bob's dad has got some fruit, and we can
warn him by wireless, and we could get a lot of the fellows together. I
don't want to make a mistake, though. If we suggest that the fire-pots
ought to be started and then it doesn't freeze, we'll hurt the League a
lot more than we'll help it."
"I wish we could talk it over with Mr. Levin," said Anton, "but he's
down with one of his sick spells and we oughtn't to disturb him.
Whatever we do, we've got to do it on our own."
"Let's get Bob here," suggested Ross, "he's got a steady head."
"And Fred," Anton added, "he's read all the Weather Bureau stuff on
Frosts, I know. He's been writing his articles for the _Review_ from
them."
"All right," said Ross, "I'll slip over and call for Fred and you get
Bob on the wireless and ask him to come over here."
An hour later, the four boys were poring over the weather maps,
comparing notes and observations and trying to decide whether they ought
to do anything. Fred, always ready to take up something new, was for
plunging ahead, on the chance that there might be frost, but doubted
whether a frost was likely. Ross, as head of the League, was a little
timid and afraid to make a serious mistake. Anton was firmly convinced
that a killing frost would come before morning. Bob settled it.
"Better for the League to be laughed at than chance having the crops
ruined," he said.
This turned the scale, and from a discussion of the advisability of
frost warning, the question turned to the best way of letting people
know. It was decided that Bob should return to his wireless, get as many
of his connected operators in touch as possible and get them to warn
their districts. Fred, who had persuaded his father to install a 'phone,
was to get in touch with the few farmers in the district who had
telephones and ask them to spread the warning. Anton was to borrow his
father's buggy and drive to points not reached in any other way, and
Ross was to go on his pony. By this means, the county would be fairly
well covered. The boys were just separating, when Bob stopped.
"Jed Tighe!" he said.
"Oh, let the old skinflint go," said Fred, "there isn't any way of
reaching him, any way."
"That doesn't seem quite fair," said Ross, dubiously, "he's got more
fruit than anybody else."
"It isn't fair," said Bob.
"I've been wondering," said Anton, "if we oughtn't to notify Jed Tighe
somehow."
"We've got to," said Bob.
"And only get rowed at for our pains," declared Fred.
This was so likely that all the boys felt the truth of the remark and
there was a moment's silence.
"Play square," said Bob.
"Jed Tighe has never done anything to help the League," said Fred. "I
don't see why we should do anything to help him."
"Well," said Ross, "we can't take that stand. Any chap that needs help
ought to be warned. If you saw his house on fire, Fred, you wouldn't
hesitate to tell Jed Tighe, would you?"
"No," answered the editor doubtfully, "I wouldn't, but this seems
different, some way. We might be making fools of ourselves and he'd have
the laugh on us for ever."
"Better be laughed at for trying to help than blamed for not trying,"
repeated Bob.
This was unanswerable and to Ross was deputed the dubious pleasure of
notifying the hard old farmer. As the boys separated, Anton looked at
his watch.
"It's going to be all hours before you get home to your own place,
Ross," said Anton, "it would be a shame if your fruit ran a risk by your
being late. Your dad hasn't got a 'phone."
"That's easily fixed," said Ross.
He went to the door and whistled. Rex came bounding up. Ross went to the
table and scribbled on a piece of paper:
"Frost to-night! Light the pots!"
This he fastened securely to the Airedale's collar.
"Home! Rex!" he said.
The terrier looked up in his master's face to make sure that it was an
order, and not a game, and evidently being satisfied, started down the
road at a long sweeping trot. About a hundred yards away he stopped and
turned round to look. Ross was expecting this, so raised his arm and
pointed. Quite satisfied, Rex swung round to the road again and galloped
out of sight.
The boys separated at once, Bob to his wireless outfit, Fred to his
'phone. Anton, however, did not get in the buggy, as arranged. Instead,
his father, knowing that the lad was frail, packed him off to bed and
drove in the buggy himself, warning all his neighbors. Ross, on his
little pony, riding like another Paul Revere, covered many miles. It was
well on towards midnight when he reached Jed Tighe's house. The dogs
broke out into a furious barking, and, wakened by their tumult, the old
farmer with his thin scraggly beard, came to the door.
"What do you want, coming to my house at this hour of the night?" he
began, not recognizing his visitor.
"It's me, Ross Planford," the boy answered. "I came to tell you that
it's going to freeze tonight."
"That's a nice reason for getting a man out of his bed! Besides, it
ain't so. There's never been a frost in this county later'n April 3."
He snapped his fingers at the boy. "That's how much you know about it."
Ross found it hard to keep down his temper at this discourtesy.
"It's going to freeze, just the same," he retorted.
"Well, let it freeze, and you, too."
The old farmer began to close the door.
"But your fruit'll all be frosted!"
"Save it yourself, then," snapped Jed Tighe and slammed the door.
Ross dug his heels into his pony and started for home. The ride had
taken him six miles out of his way and he was anxious to get home to
make sure Rex had delivered his message. Still, as he rode, his pony's
hoofs seemed to beat out the message:
"Save it yourself, then!"
Why should he?
Again--
Why shouldn't he?
The gallop came down to a trot and then to a walk, as Ross brooded over
what he should do. As it chanced, his path lay near one of the younger
members of the League, who had bought a small wireless outfit, similar
to that of Anton's. Ross reined in.
As at Jed Tighe's, the hounds announced his arrival and the farmer poked
his head out of the window. He recognized the boy at once.
"What's up, Ross?" he asked. "Anything wrong?"
"There's a killing freeze coming tonight, Mr. Lovell," the boy answered.
"We're warning every one with fruit trees to start a smudge going. And,
Mr. Lovell, can I use the wireless for a minute?"
"Of course. Much obliged for the tip, my boy, I'll get right up and
attend to things. Of course, I don't know as it'll do any good, if it's
a goin' to freeze; to my way o' thinkin' it's goin' to freeze and
nothin'll stop it. But no one can say that Tim Lovell was too lazy to
try an' save his crops."
Ross tied his pony and hurried up to his friend's room. In a minute the
wireless was buzzing and presently, back came the answering buzz.
Georgie sat up in bed and listened.
"I'll go with you to Jed Tighe's," he said, "that is, if Father'll let
me."
"Try it," said Ross, "if he will, you can jump on the pony behind me."
Permission was readily granted, for the farmer was grateful for his own
warning, and in less than ten minutes' time the two boys were galloping
back along the frosty road to the old skinflint's place.
"Aren't you going to tell him about the frost?" asked George, as Ross
turned his pony off on the windward side of the orchard.
"I have told him," answered Ross, and he related the story of the
meeting, gathering together dry twigs and branches as he talked.
George waxed indignant.
"I'd let him go to grass!" he said.
"That's what I thought at first," Ross replied, "but if you saw a chap
drowning, you'd jump in and save him without waiting to find out whether
he was delirious and didn't want to be saved."
"Of course," George answered, "any fellow would jump in."
"That's what we're doing, we're jumping in."
Minutes were precious and the two boys worked with all their might,
gathering piles of twigs and dry sticks. There was a heap of straw and
stable manure a field or two away, and Ross rolled several wheelbarrow
loads of it across the fields. After two hours' work, the boys had a row
of little piles of fuel, covering one quarter of the length of the
orchard.
"You light the first one, Georgie," said Ross, wanting to give the
younger lad the honor, for he had worked pluckily and hard.
The lad went down and touched a match to the first pile. It blazed up
merrily, and just as the smoke began to rise, the wheels of a buggy were
heard along the road. A moment later Bob jumped out.
"Hello!" was all he said.
He cast one glance at the piles and commenced to work with a will.
Presently a shout was heard and Ralph, the photographer, appeared on his
wheel.
"There's a bunch more coming," he said, and he, too, set to work.
"Frost!" said Bob suddenly, as he pointed to a small glistening crystal
of hoar frost on a blade of grass.
The boys cheered. Their prophecies were justified, and they plugged at
the work harder than ever. Bob, who feared neither Jed Tighe's tongue,
nor anything else, opened the farmer's stable, harnessed and hitched up
a team, and commenced to draw the manure and straw to the edge of the
orchard. It was now three o'clock and the frost was beginning to form
rapidly.
"We can't save the rest of it," said Ross, as he looked longingly at the
far quarter of the orchard; "we've got all we can do to keep going what
we've got."
Four o'clock and five o'clock passed. The sun rose. Promptly at
five-thirty, his regular hour, old Jed Tighe got up and walked to the
window to see what kind of a day it was. He rubbed his eyes and looked
again, astonished.
There, on his land, using his team of horses, was a group of eight boys,
their forms only occasionally seen through the blanket of smoke which
drifted sluggishly over and through the trees of his orchard. The ground
was white with hoar frost and the lower branches of the trees in the
yard had frost crystals on them. The farmer dressed hurriedly and went
out.
A dead silence fell along the boys as the tall spare form of the farmer
was seen approaching. Georgie and some of the younger ones shrank back.
Ross stood his ground. Bob lounged forward.
Jed Tighe said never a word. He cast a shrewd glance at the fruit trees
in the orchard which had been nearest to the fires and the smudges, and
then, still silently, walked down the entire line of the fires until the
end of it, and beyond. On the unprotected stretch, the frost lay thick.
He stood thoughtfully a moment and then walked back up the line, more
slowly, until he came to where Ross stood, watching him.
"So you did save it, eh?"
"Yes, Mr. Tighe," the boy said, "I did."
"And I suppose you think I told you to?"
"Yes, you did."
"I'm not any fonder of being made to look like a fool than most men
are," the farmer said, "but I'm fair." He turned on his heel and started
to walk away. Over his shoulder he snapped:
"Twenty-five per cent of the value of the difference between the fruit
on the protected and the unprotected parts of my ground goes to the
League. And I'll let my boy, Bill, join you."