[Illustration: WITH A GRINDING CRASH THE EARTH ON WHICH JOE
STOOD WENT OUT FROM UNDER HIM.]
THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AT PANAMA
OR
Stirring Adventures Along the Great Canal
By
VICTOR APPLETON
1915
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I TO THE RESCUE
II ON THE BRINK
III A SURPRISE
IV A DELAYED LETTER
V ANOTHER SURPRISE
VI SOMETHING QUEER
VII IN NEW YORK
VIII OFF FOR PANAMA
IX THE LITTLE BOX
X THE SECRET CONFERENCE
XI ALONG THE CANAL
XII ALMOST AN ACCIDENT
XIII IN THE JUNGLE
XIV IN DIRE PERIL
XV IN CULEBRA CUT
XVI THE COLLISION
XVII THE EMERGENCY DAM
XVIII THE BIG SLIDE
XIX JOE'S PLIGHT
XX AT GATUN DAM
XXI MR. ALCANDO'S ABSENCE
XXII A WARNING
XXIII THE FLASHLIGHT
XXIV THE TICK-TICK
XXV MR. ALCANDO DISAPPEARS
THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AT PANAMA
CHAPTER I
TO THE RESCUE
With a series of puffs and chugs a big, shiny motor
cycle turned from the road into the graveled drive at the side of
a white farmhouse. Two boys sat on the creaking saddles. The one
at the front handle bars threw forward the clutch lever, and then
turned on the power sharply to drive the last of the gases out of
the twin cylinders.
The motor cycle came to a stop near a shed, and the two lads,
swinging off, looked at each other for a moment.
"Some ride, that!" observed one. "You had her going then, Blake!"
"Just a little, Joe--yes. It was a nice level stretch, and I
wanted to see what she could do."
"You didn't let her out to the full at that; did you?"
"I should say not!" answered the one who had ridden in front, and
guided the steed of steel and gasoline. "She'll do better than
ninety miles an hour on the level; but I don't want to ride on her
when she's doing it."
"Nor I. Well, it was a nice little run, all right. Funny, though,
that we didn't get any mail; wasn't it?"
"It sure was. I think somebody must be robbing the post-office,
for we ought to have had a letter from Mr. Hadley before this,"
and he laughed at his own joke.
"Yes," agreed Joe, "and I ought to have had one from--"
He stopped suddenly, and a blush suffused the tan of his cheeks.
"Might as well say it as think it," broke in Blake with another
laugh that showed his white, even teeth. "Hasn't Mabel written to
you this week?"
"What if she hasn't?" fired back Joe.
"Oh, nothing. Only--"
"Only I suppose you are put out because you haven't had a postcard
from Birdie Lee!" challenged Joe.
"Oh, well, have it your own way," and Blake, with a shrug of his
broad shoulders, began to wheel the motor cycle into the shed.
"No, but it is queer; isn't it?" went on Joe. "Here we've been
back from the flood district over two weeks now, and we haven't
had a line from Mr. Hadley. He promised to write, too, and let us
know what sort of moving pictures he might be in line for next.
Our vacation will soon be over, and we don't want to be idle."
"That's right," agreed his chum. "There's no money in sitting
around, when the film isn't running. Oh, well, I suppose Mr.
Hadley has been so busy that he hasn't had time to make his plans.
"Besides," Blake went on, "you know there was a lot of trouble
over the Mississippi flood pictures--reels of film getting lost,
and all that--to say nothing of the dangers our friends ran.
Birdie Lee said she'd never forget what they suffered."
"I don't blame her. Well, maybe they haven't got straightened out
enough yet to feel like writing. But it sure is nice here, and I
don't mind if we stay another week or so," and he looked up the
pleasant valley, on one side of which was perched the farmhouse
where the two moving picture boys had been spending their
vacation.
"It sure is nice," agreed Blake. "And it's lots more fun since we
got this motor cycle," for they had lately invested in the
powerful vehicle on which they had made many trips about the
surrounding country.
As Blake went to put the machine in the shed, which their
farmer-landlord had allowed them to use, Joe turned to glance back
along the road they had come.
The farmhouse was set up on a little hill, above the road, and a
glimpse of the highway could be had for a long distance. It was
the sight of something coming along this thoroughfare that
attracted Joe's attention.
"What are you looking at?" asked Blake, returning after having put
away the motor cycle.
"That horse and buggy. Looks to me as though that horse was
feeling his oats, and that the fellow driving him didn't know any
more about handling the reins than the law allows."
"That's right, Joe. If he doesn't look out he'll have an upset, or
a runaway."
The vehicle in question was a light buggy; drawn by a particularly
large and spirited horse. Seated in the carriage, as the boys
could see from their point of vantage, were two men. Who they were
could not be distinguished at that distance, but the carriage was
rapidly coming nearer.
"There he goes!" suddenly cried Joe.
As his chum spoke Blake saw that one of the reins had parted,
probably because the driver pulled on it too hard in trying to
bring the restive steed down to a walk.
Once the spirited horse felt that he was no longer under control,
save by one line, which was worse than none, he sprang forward,
and at once began to gallop, pulling after him the light carriage,
which swayed from side to side, threatening every moment to
collapse, overturn, or at least be torn loose from the horse.
"There he goes!" yelled Joe again.
"I should say so!" agreed Blake. "There are going to be some
doings soon!"
This was evident, for the horse was running away, a fact not only
apparent in itself, but heralded by the looks on the faces of the
two occupants of the carriage, and by their frightened cries,
which the wind easily carried to the watching Joe Duncan and Blake
Stewart.
On the road below them, and past the boys, swept the swaying
carriage in a cloud of dust. As it was momentarily lost to sight
behind a grassy knoll, Blake cried:
"The broken bridge, Joe! The broken bridge! They're headed right
for it!"
"That's right!" exclaimed his chum. "How can we stop them?"
Once having recognized the danger, the next thought that came to
the minds of Blake and Joe, trained for emergencies, was how to
avert it. They looked at each other for a second, not to gain a
delay, but to decide on the best possible plan of saving the
imperiled men.
"The broken bridge," murmured Blake again. "That horse will never
be able to make the turn into the temporary road, going at the
speed he is!"
"No, and he's probably so frightened that he'll not try it,"
agreed Joe. "He'll crash right through the barrier fence, and--"
He did not finish his sentence, but Blake knew what his chum
meant.
About half a mile beyond the farmhouse the road ran over a bridge
that spanned a deep and rocky ravine. About a week before there
had been an accident. Weakened by the passing of a heavy traction
threshing engine, it had been broken, and was ruled unsafe by the
county authorities.
Accordingly the bridge had been condemned and partially torn down,
a new structure being planned to replace it. But this new bridge
was not yet in place, though a frail, temporary span, open only to
foot passengers and very light vehicles, had been thrown across
the ravine.
The danger, though, was not so much in the temporary bridge, as in
the fact that the temporary road, connecting with it, left the
main and permanent highway at a sharp curve. Persons knowing of
the broken bridge made allowances for this curve, and approached
along the main road carefully, to make the turn safely into the
temporary highway.
But a maddened horse could not be expected to do this. He would
dash along the main road, and would not make the turn. Or, if he
did, going at the speed of this one, he would most certainly
overturn the carriage.
The main highway was fenced off a short distance on either side of
the broken bridge, but this barrier was of so frail a nature that
it could not be expected to stop a runaway.
"He'll crash right through it, run out on the end of the broken
bridge and----"
Once more Joe did not finish.
"We've got to do something!" cried Blake.
"Yes, but what?" asked Joe.
"We've got to save them!" cried Blake again, as he thought of the
two men in the carriage. He had had a glimpse of their faces as
the vehicle, drawn by the frenzied horse, swept past him on the
road below. One of the men he knew to be employed in the only
livery stable of Central Falls, on the outskirts of which he and
Joe were spending their holiday. The other man was a stranger.
Blake had only seen that he was a young man, rather good-looking,
and of a foreign cast of countenance. Blake had momentarily put
him down for an Italian.
"The motor cycle!" suddenly cried Joe.
"What?" asked Blake, only half comprehending.
"We might overtake them on the motor cycle!" repeated his chum.
A look of understanding came into Blake's eyes.
"That's right!" he cried. "Why didn't I think of that before,
instead of standing here mooning? I wonder if we've got time?"
"We'll make time!" cried Joe grimly. "Get her out, and we'll ride
for all we're worth. It'll be a race, Blake!"
"Yes. A race to save a life! Lucky she's got plenty of gas and oil
in her."
"Yes, and she hasn't had a chance to cool down. Run her out."
Blake fairly leaped toward the shed where he had wheeled the motor
cycle. In another instant he and Joe were trundling it down the
gravel walk to the road.
As they reached the highway they could hear, growing fainter and
fainter, the "thump-thud," of the hoofs of the runaway horse.
Joe held the machine upright while Blake vaulted to the forward
saddle and began to work the pedals to start the motor. The
cylinders were still hot from the recent run, and at the first
revolution the staccato explosions began.
"Jump up!" yelled Blake in his chum's ear--shouting above the
rattle and bang of the exhaust, for the muffler was open.
Joe sprang to leather, but before he was in his seat Blake was
letting in the friction clutch, and a moment later, at ever
gathering speed, the shining motor cycle was speeding down the
road to the rescue. Would Joe and Blake be in time?