The Aeroplane Boys Series
In the Clouds for Uncle Sam
OR
Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps
The Aeroplane Boys Series
By ASHTON LAMAR
I IN THE CLOUDS FOR UNCLE SAM
Or, Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps.
II THE STOLEN AEROPLANE
Or, How Bud Wilson Made Good.
III THE AEROPLANE EXPRESS
Or, The Boy Aeronaut’s Grit.
IV THE BOY AERONAUTS’ CLUB
Or, Flying For Fun.
V A CRUISE IN THE SKY
Or, The Legend of the Great Pink Pearl.
VI BATTLING THE BIG HORN
Or, The Aeroplane in the Rockies.
OTHER TITLES TO FOLLOW
These stories are the newest and most up-to-date. All aeroplane details
are correct. Fully illustrated. Colored frontispiece. Cloth, 12mos.
Price, 60 cents each.
The Airship Boys Series
By H. L. SAYLER
I THE AIRSHIP BOYS
Or, The Quest of the Aztec Treasure.
II THE AIRSHIP BOYS ADRIFT
Or, Saved by an Aeroplane.
III THE AIRSHIP BOYS DUE NORTH
Or, By Balloon to the Pole.
IV THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN THE BARREN LANDS
Or, The Secret of the White Eskimos.
V THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN FINANCE
Or, The Flight of the Flying Cow.
VI THE AIRSHIP BOYS’ OCEAN FLYER
Or, New York to London in Twelve Hours.
These thrilling stories deal with the wonderful new science of aerial
navigation. Every boy will be interested and instructed by reading
them. Illustrated. Cloth binding. Price, $1.00 each.
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of price by the
Publishers The Reilly & Britton Co. Chicago
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[Illustration: MOREY HITS THE MARK.]
In The Clouds
For Uncle Sam
OR
Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps
BY
ASHTON LAMAR
[Illustration: _The
AEROPLANE
BOYS
SERIES_
REG. U. S. PAT. OFF.]
Illustrated by S. H. Riesenberg
Chicago
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Publishers
COPYRIGHT, 1910,
by
THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
IN THE CLOUDS FOR UNCLE SAM
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I AN EARLY MORNING GALLOP 1
II BREAKFAST ON THE GALLERY 12
III MOREY MEETS A FELLOW FISHERMAN 24
IV A SECRET AMBITION REVEALED 37
V A VISIT OF CEREMONY 48
VI MOREY LEARNS HE IS A BANKRUPT 59
VII AN EXCITING INTERVIEW 72
VIII A CONSULTATION WITH AN ATTORNEY 84
IX THE SECRET OF AN OLD DESK 98
X AMOS BECOMES A SANCHO PANZA 110
XI MOREY MAKES AMOS A NOTE 120
XII THE RUNAWAYS DISCOVERED 133
XIII ARRIVAL AT FORT MEYER 145
XIV A SCREW LOOSE 156
XV TWO IRONS IN THE FIRE 169
XVI THE SIGNAL CORPS CAMP IN THE MOUNTAINS 181
XVII THE AEROPLANE AS A WAR MACHINE 193
XVIII SERGEANT MARSHALL OUTWITS MAJOR CAREY 202
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Morey hits the mark _Frontispiece_
Amos struggled to free himself 31
Morey ran from the office 93
Mr. Wright sprang forward 159
In the Clouds for Uncle Sam
OR
Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps
CHAPTER I
AN EARLY MORNING GALLOP.
“Hey dar, come along. What’s detainin’ yo’ all?”
Two boys, one, a gaunt, long-legged, barefooted colored lad, mounted on
a lean mule, and the other a white lad, knees in and bestriding a fat,
puffing, sway-backed mare, came dashing down a country road in Virginia.
“You black rascal!” panted the white rider, “what d’you mean? Pull up!”
“I cain’t,” shouted the boy on the mule. “Ole Jim’s got de bit.”
“Bit?” muttered the other rider, noticing the mule’s rope halter and
smiling. “I reckon Amos wants a race.”
Loosening his worn and dingy reins the white boy drew himself
together, took a fresh grip on an old fashioned riding crop and spoke
to his mount.
“You ain’t goin’ to take the dust from a common mule, are you, Betty?”
As if she understood, the laboring mare, already wet with foam, and
with nostrils throbbing, sprang forward.
“Out of the way!” shouted her rider. His light hair lay flat on his
bare head and his arms were close by his side. “Mules off the road for
the old hunter!”
Like a flash the boy on the mare passed the plunging, clattering old
Jim and his humped-up rider. But only for a moment. Proud Betty, once
the pride of the late Colonel Aspley Marshall, the hunter that took the
dust from nothing in western Virginia, had seen her day. Old Jim came
on like an avalanche.
“Cain’t stop dis beas’, Marse Morey. Git outen de way, Marse Morey,
we’s needin’ de road.”
Hanging about the neck of the mule, Amos, the colored boy, opened his
mouth, flashing a row of white teeth on Morey’s sight. The young rider
knew that Amos was laughing at him. He set his square jaw and leaned
forward over the old hunter’s neck.
“Betty,” he whispered, patting the soft, silken coat of his laboring
animal, “for the honor of the stable we used to own--_go it_!”
And Betty tried--her nostrils now set, her head and neck forward, and
the light young rider firm but easy in his seat.
“Can’t hold him, eh?” shouted Betty’s rider as the mule drew alongside.
Amos was digging his bare heels into old Jim’s ribbed sides and lashing
like mad with the end of his bridle rope.
Morey saw that he was beaten in a flat race, but he did not surrender.
“Race you to the barn,” he cried as Amos’ kicks and lashing forced the
plow mule once more to the front, “and over the front gate.”
“No sah! No sah!” trailed back from Amos. “Dis ain’t no fox hunt. Dis
am a plain hoss race. Not ober de gate.”
“The first one over the gate,” insisted the white boy, now falling well
behind.
Amos turned but he did not show his teeth.
“Look hyar, Marse Morey! What you talkin’ ’bout? Dat ole Betty ain’t
jumped no gate sence you all’s pa died. Yo’ll break yo’ fool neck.”
Morey only smiled. The two animals beat the hard highway with their
flying feet.
“Yo’ all’s on’y jokin’, Marse Morey,” pleaded the alarmed colored boy,
as the racing steeds came to the dirt road leading through what was
left of the Marshall estate, and headed toward the ramshackle old gate
a quarter of a mile away. The dust rolled behind the galloping horse
and mule. Amos turned and shouted again:
“Pull up dat ole plug. She cain’t jump a feed box. Yo’ all gwine break
bofe yo’ necks.”
The only answer was a wave of Morey’s riding crop and a toss of the
smiling boy’s head.
“Out of our way, boy!” sang out Morey. “Over the gate--”
“Hey, Marse Morey! Hey dar! Take yo’ ole race. I’s jes’ jokin’. I
ain’t racin’ no mo’,” and throwing himself backwards on old Jim the
frightened Amos pulled out of the race. But Betty, the stiff and
crippled old hunter, had her mettle up, and Morey made no effort to
stop her. With a laugh and a wave of his hand at the alarmed colored
boy as he dashed by, the cool young white lad gave the proud mare her
head.
At the half-broken gate the trembling animal, throwing off for a
moment the stiffness of years, came to a mincing pause, gathered her
fore feet beneath her and rose. Up in the air went Morey’s hands and
his father’s old crop as Betty’s fore feet cleared the top panel.
Then--crash! On the uncut grass of the door yard tumbled horse and
rider.
“I tol’ yo’! I tol’ yo’!” shouted Amos as Betty struggled clumsily to
her feet. “Marse Morey,” he added, rolling from old Jim’s back, “is yo’
hurted?”
There was a dash of red on the white cheek of the prostrate Morey but
in another moment he was on his feet.
“I ain’t hurt, you rascal, but the next time you turn that old plow
plug loose against Betty I’ll break your black head.”
“Yas sah, yas sah,” snickered Amos. “She sho’ was gwine some!”
“Rub Betty down and then give her a quart of oats.”
“Yo’ mean turn her in de fiel’!”
“Has she been fed this morning?”
“Dey ain’t no oats. We’s out ob oats.”
“Tell your father to order some.”
“I reckon he done ordah cawn an’ oats but dey’s slow bringin’ ’em.
Dey’s slow all de time. I done been borrowin’ oats offen Majah Carey.”
“Well,” exclaimed Morey proudly, “don’t you borrow any more oats from
Major Carey!”
“Why,” exclaimed Amos, “we been gittin’ fodder offen’ Majah Carey all
winter--all de while yo’ been to school. Dey’s so slow bringin’ oats
from town dey don’t never git hyar.”
“Did my mother tell you to go to the Carey’s for horse feed?”
“Fo’ de lan’ sake, chile! you don’ reckon my ole pap gwine to bodder
Miss Marshall ’bout oats and cawn! He jes’ tells me to go git ’em and I
done go git ’em.”
A peculiar look came into the face of Amos’ young master. But Morey
said nothing. Waving his hand to the solemn-faced colored boy to care
for the animals, he started across the long, fragrant June grass thick
about the dingy plantation home.
But trouble sat lightly on Morey Marshall. Before he and the shambling
Amos were many feet apart the young Virginian paused and gave an old
familiar soft whistle. The slow-footed colored boy stopped instantly,
and then, as Betty wandered at will into a new flower bed and the lean
mule walked with ears drooped towards the distant horse sheds, Amos
hurried to Morey’s side.
“Amos,” said Morey, “are you busy this morning?”
The colored boy looked at his white companion in open amazement.
“I said,” repeated Morey, “are you _busy_ this morning?”
Amos was not exactly quick-witted, but, in time, with great mental
effort, he figured out that this must be a joke.
A sparkle slowly came into his wide-set eyes and then his long, hollow
face grew shorter as his cheeks rounded out. His lips parted in a
curved slit and his white teeth shone. He laughed loudly.
“I reckon I’s gwine be purty busy. Ma’m Ca’line done tole me to sarch
de hen’s nes’. On’y,” and he scratched his kinky head, “on’y I ain’t
had no time yit to git de aiggs.”
“Well, I’ll help you with that. How many hens are there now?”
“Fo’. But one’s a rooster.”
“How many eggs do we get a day?”
“Ebery day two--sometimes. Des’ fo’ yo’ ma’s breakfus’.”
It was Morey’s turn to laugh.
“Pa’s done made ’rangements to lend us six pullets from Majah Carey.”
“To borrow six hens?”
“Sho’. We done borrow’ chickens mos’ ob de time--fo’ de aiggs. But we
don’t keep ’em. We always takes ’em back--mostly.”
“Mostly?” roared Morey.
“Shorely,” explained Amos soberly. “We’s pa’ticlar ’bout dat. But
we done et one of Captain Barber’s ole hens. She was too fat an’
lazy--didn’t git us one aigg.”
“Was this all for my mother?” queried Morey, his face clouding again.
“Yo’ ma don’ know nothin’ ’bout de critters. Pa, he paid Captain Barber
fo’ de ole hen we et.”
“That’s right.”
“Yas sah, yas sah. I done took him a dozen aiggs ma sef. Wha’ fo’ yo’
laffin’, boy? Da’s right.”
“What I wanted to know is, have you time to go fishing this morning?
How about that trout hole up at the bend of the creek?”
Amos’ smile gleamed again like a white gash.
“Ole Julius Cæsar, de king trout? Ain’t nobody cotch him yit. But he’s
got ’bout a million chilluns. Say, boy,” whispered the colored lad,
“I done reckon Miss Marshall had her breakfus’ by dis’ time. An’ dem
aiggs ain’t gwine to spile whar dey is. I’s git yo’ ol’ rod and yo’
ol’ flies, an’ say, I’s got one dat ah made mase’f. Dat fly’s fo’ ol’
Julius Cæsar an’ you. Say,” he concluded, looking wisely into the clear
blue unclouded sky and wrinkling his sober brow, “I spec’s we bes’ be
gwine ’long. Pears to me like rain.”
“I’ll meet you in a half hour by the tobacco shed,” exclaimed Morey.
Again Amos’ brow lowered and he shook his head.
“Ain’t yo’ ma tol’ you?” he asked.
“Told me what?”
“Dey ain’t no shed no mo’.”
“No shed!” exclaimed Morey, looking quickly toward the far end of the
old plantation. “Why, what’s become of it?”
“Captain Barber, he done tote it away.”
“Captain Barber moved it away? Why, what right has he on my mother’s
place?”
“I dunno. But he tooked it away.”
“When?” exclaimed Morey excitedly.
“When?” repeated Amos. “Da’s when he fit pa and call him ‘ol’ fashion
nigger better wake up.’”
Morey caught the colored boy by the shoulders.
“I didn’t know your father ever had a fight with our neighbor.”
“Not ezackly no fight, kase Captain Barber he wouldn’t do nothin’ but
laugh.”
“But what was it all about?”
“Pap done call him a liar.”
“Your pap ought to be hided. Captain Barber is a white man.”
“Yas sah, yas sah. But he _is_ a liar.”
Morey smiled again.
“Do you know what he lied about?” he asked.
Amos drew himself up in indignation.
“Didn’ he go fo’ to say he bought de’ ole fiel’ whar de baccy shed was?
An’ ain’t dat a big lie? Yo’ ma owns all dis ole plantation ’case pap
says she do. But he tooked de house. He ain’t buy dat lan’, is he?”
concluded the simple colored boy.
Morey stood in deep thought. But at last, his voice quavering, he said:
“I don’t know, Amos--I hope not.”
Morey had returned home that morning after a winter in school at
Richmond and a visit to his uncle in New York State. To him the old
house appeared much the same, and his mother was in no wise changed.
With her he had as yet had no talk over the affairs of the plantation
and, after his morning coffee, he had hurried with Amos to the
village two miles away on an errand. The hints that Amos had dropped
unconsciously startled him, but the sky was blue, the air was soft,
there was the smell of mint in the neglected grass and he was but
eighteen years old.
“Meet me where the barn used to be,” he exclaimed suddenly and, turning
ran toward the house.