Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed

                       The Aeroplane Boys Series

                        When Scout Meets Scout

                                  OR

                           The Aeroplane Spy

 The
 Aeroplane Boys Series

 _By_ ASHTON LAMAR

  IN THE CLOUDS FOR UNCLE SAM
  Or, Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps

  THE STOLEN AEROPLANE
  Or, How Bud Wilson Made Good

  THE AEROPLANE EXPRESS
  Or, The Boy Aeronaut’s Grit

  THE BOY AERONAUTS’ CLUB
  Or, Flying for Fun

  A CRUISE IN THE SKY
  Or, The Legend of the Great Pink Pearl

  BATTLING THE BIGHORN
  Or, The Aeroplane in the Rockies

  WHEN SCOUT MEETS SCOUT
  Or, The Aeroplane Spy

FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS IN EACH BOOK

_Price, 60 Cents_

 Publishers    The Reilly & Britton Co.    Chicago

[Illustration: CAPTURE OF THE TIGER.]

                                 When
                           Scout Meets Scout

                                  OR

                           The Aeroplane Spy

                                  BY
                             ASHTON LAMAR

              [Illustration: _The AEROPLANE BOYS SERIES_
                         REG. U. S. PAT. OFF.]

                    Illustrated by S. H. Riesenberg

                       The Reilly & Britton Co.
                                Chicago

                            COPYRIGHT, 1912
                                  by
                       THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.
                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

                        WHEN SCOUT MEETS SCOUT

CONTENTS

 CHAP.                                           PAGE
    I A STORM CLOUD GATHERS                         9
   II AN EMISSARY FROM THE ENEMY                   22
  III THE BATTLE AT THE OLD SYCAMORE               35
   IV THE BITTER FRUITS OF DEFEAT                  49
    V MR. TREVOR’S MYSTERIOUS INVITATION           61
   VI WHAT CAME OUT OF A TEA PARTY                 73
  VII ARTHUR’S DEAL WITH A CIRCUS HAND             88
 VIII AN AFTERNOON AT THE CIRCUS                  102
   IX THE CIRCUS LOSES ITS AVIATOR                118
    X THE BOY SCOUTS’ FIRST SALUTE                133
   XI THE “COYOTES” INVADE ELM STREET             147
  XII THE CASK IN THE RIVER                       161
 XIII MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS                          175
  XIV MARSHAL WALTER MAKES A CAPTURE AT LAST      189
   XV GOOSETOWN’S PRODIGAL SONS                   202
  XVI WHEN SCOUT MEETS SCOUT                      216
 XVII THE AEROPLANE SPY                           232

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 The Capture of the Tiger        _Frontispiece_

 Playing at War                             92

 The Mysterious Cask                       164

 Signaling the “Aeroplane Spy”             244

 When Scout Meets Scout
 OR
 The Aeroplane Spy

CHAPTER I

A STORM CLOUD GATHERS

When Arthur Trevor caught the flying machine fever and organized the
“Young Aviators,” neither he nor the other boys who joined the club
meant to do anything but make toy aeroplanes. There was certainly no
reason for them to foresee that their first tournament was to turn the
young aviators into Boy Scouts, and in the end, into real Boy Scout
Aviators owning a practical aeroplane. But there were signs from the
first that the “Goosetown gang” was going to make trouble for the “Elm
Street boys.” The beginning of everything and the clash between the
“Goosetown gang” and the “Elm Street boys” was in this wise:

Arthur Trevor’s father was a lawyer. Like the parents of most of
Art’s companions, he lived in the best part of Scottsville. Here, on
Elm Street, the trees were large; the residences were of brick, with
wide porches; gardeners saw to the lawns, and nearly every home had
a new automobile garage. Therefore, the boys living here――although
they thought themselves neither better nor worse than other boys――were
usually known as the “Swells” or the “Elm Street boys.” As a matter of
fact they were just as freckled of face, as much opposed to “dressing
up,” as full of boy ambitions and with nicknames just as outlandish as
any Goosetown kid.

But the Goosetown boys did not take that view of things. In Goosetown
there were no automobiles. Houses were decorated with “lady finger”
vines. While there were many gardens, these were devoted mainly to
cabbages and tomatoes. If the lads living here had taken more interest
in their homes and less in playing hooky they might have felt less
bitter toward their supposed rivals. They came to understand this in
time, too, but this was not until the Boy Scout movement swept through
Scottsville.

Although the two crowds did not mix, and seldom came in contact,
in some mysterious boy way each contrived to keep well advised of
the doings of the other. For instance, Art Trevor, Frank Ware, Sam
Addington and Colfax Craighead, although busy making aeroplanes in the
loft of the Trevor garage, were able to discuss the latest Goosetown
gossip――how the gang playing cards under the big sycamore beyond the
railroad bridge had quarreled with Nick Apthorp because he broke a
bottle of beer, and had ducked him below the river dam. This news had
become gossip because Nick’s head had come in contact with a submerged
log and he had been rescued barely in time to escape drowning.

On the other hand, the latest bit of news from Elm Street to reach
Goosetown created a real sensation. Nick Apthorp, who had astonished
his Goosetown gang-mates by violating precedent and doing several
hours’ actual work (he had accepted an afternoon’s job of distributing
free samples of soap in the Elm Street district) was partly excused by
his associates when he turned over to them a hand-printed circular.
This he had stolen from the door of the Trevor garage. With the
circular and some of the perfumed soap that had been entrusted to him,
of which he had appropriated half, Nick somewhat placated his jeering
gang-associates.

“Well, I guess there’ll be somethin’ doin’ now!” chuckled Mart Clare.
“An’ shyin’ their keester right into our own bailiwick, too. What d’ye
think o’ that?”

“Rich!” chuckled Jimmy Compton. “A gran’ show free gratis fur nothin’.
Don’t fergit the day an’ date!”

“They must be achin’ fur trouble,” suggested Henry or “Hank” Milleson.
“I reckon if we went over to Elm Street fur a little game o’ poker
they’d put the police on us. And fur them swells to be a-plannin’ to
come over to Sycamore Pasture” (Hank called it “paster”) “to pull off
a toy airyplane show, don’t mean nothin’ but defyin’ us. Ever’ one of
’em, from little Artie Trevor down to Coldslaw Bighead knows that. But
say, kiddos,” went on Hank as he paused in the shuffling of a deck of
greasy cards, for several of the gang were whiling away the sleepy June
afternoon in the shade of the same big sycamore, “I got a hunch. Them
kids are wise. They’re on. They ain’t comin’ over here ’less they’re
fixed fur trouble. I’ll bet you they got somethin’ up their sleeves.
An’ I’ll say this: Artie an’ his friends ain’t no milksops, ef they
do run to makin’ toys. They ain’t got no right to come here a-buttin’
in, but ef they do, an’ it comes to a show-down who’s boss, an’ I got
anything to do with the dispute, I ain’t a-goin’ to figure on puttin’
anybody down fur the count by tappin’ him on the wrist.”

“It’d be a crime to do it,” sneered Jimmy Compton, whose only activity,
aside from flipping trains and fishing occasionally, was the collection
and delivery of linen that his widowed mother washed. “I’ll show you
what I think o’ them swells when I meet ’em. Meanwhile, here’s my
sentiments.”

As he spoke, Jimmy turned from the card-playing group squatted on the
grass, and without rising, took from his mouth a quid of tobacco and
contemptuously flung it at the near-by sycamore. There it squashed
against the circular that Nick Apthorp had stolen from Trevor’s garage.
This, in derision, had been hung against the tree trunk.

The poster, the cause of the gang’s resentful comment, made this
announcement:

                       FIRST MONTHLY TOURNAMENT
                          YOUNG AVIATORS CLUB

                       Toy Aeroplane Flying For
                        Distance and Altitude,
                        Sycamore Tree Pasture,
                       Saturday 2 P. M. Prizes.

                            ADMISSION FREE

                       Arthur Trevor, President.

Jim Compton’s moist quid, for which he had now substituted a cigarette
borrowed from Matt Branson, splattered against the words “Free
Admission.”

“I reckon that’s about right,” yawned Matt. “’Cause there ain’t goin’
to be no _free_ admission. I got a notion to be doorkeeper an’ collect
a black eye ur a punched nose from ever’ one ’at can’t give me the high
sign.”

“Well,” snorted Hank Milleson, resuming the shuffling of the dog-eared
cards. “All I got to say is: ‘Look out fur your change.’ Some of them
guys may be shifty with their mitts. Take little Artie himself! When a
kid can do a high-jump o’ nearly five feet he might be handy with his
fists too.”

“I’ll jump him in the drink,” sneered Compton lazily, as he nodded
toward the sleepy Green River flowing near by. “An’ I’ll take mama’s
pet’s toys frum him while I’m doin’ it――don’t fergit it.”

“I won’t,” replied Hank significantly. “Saturday’s only day after
to-morrow. They won’t be no time to fergit. We all heered what you
said.”

“Mebbe you think I can’t!” retorted Compton as he shot a volume of
cigarette smoke through his sun-blistered nose, and straightened
himself.

“Sure you kin. You kin always tell what you’re a-going to do. Go on.
Blow yourself up with brag.”

“Cheese it, kids. Cut it out! Don’t start nothin’,” shouted Mart Clare.
“Come on, I’ve got a good hand.”

Jimmy glared at Hank but he seemed glad enough to drop the argument.

“If you think I’m braggin’, wait till Saturday,” was his only response.

“I will,” answered Hank with a new chuckle as he finished the deal of
the cards. “But take it from me, Jimmy, when you start little Artie
a-jumpin, get out from under. Don’t let him come down on top o’ you.”

“Come off――come off,” yawned Nick Apthorp as he threw his cards
towards the next dealer and reached for a string attached to a rotten
log against which he had been leaning. “Mebbe this’ll stop the rag
chewin’,” and he proceeded to pull on the string, which extended
over the edge of the river bank, at the base of which was the gang’s
swimming hole, into which Jimmy had threatened to make Art Trevor jump.

As a bottle of beer came in sight all animosities seemed forgotten.
Hank Milleson grabbed an empty lard pail. Nick knocked off the top of
the bottle on a stone and the lukewarm fluid was emptied into the pail.

“Fair divvies now,” shouted Compton, and the five young loafers crowded
about the foam-crusted pail like flies around a molasses jug. In such
manner, with few variations, the “Goosetown gang” was accustomed to
pass its afternoons.

Others who were accustomed to meet at times to play cards, drink beer
and drowse away the hours came only on Saturdays and Sundays. Some
of these had light employment in the furniture factories. Like Nick
Apthorp, Matt Branson, Mart Clare, Jimmy Compton and Hank Milleson they
had grown up without schooling, and they knew few pleasures except
those of the young “tough.”

Had the roster of the “Goosetown gang” ever been written, its prominent
members would have been in addition to those named, Job Wilkes, Joe
Andrews, Buck Bluett, Tom Bates, Pete Chester and Tony Cooper. Of all
these the foremost loafer was Hank Milleson. And Hank had a double
distinction; he had already been a prisoner in the Scottsville lock-up,
for disturbing the peace while intoxicated. At that, he was but
seventeen years old. Of the others some were not over twelve years.

Before dark that evening, news of what Jimmy Compton had done reached
Elm Street. Sammy Addington was the one who brought the bulletin to the
Trevor Garage.

“Jim Compton――Carrots――” reported Sammy, his eyes sparkling, “says he’s
goin’ to make you jump in the river,” addressing Art Trevor, who was
busy testing rubber cord.

“Me? In the river?” exclaimed Art in surprise. “What’s gone wrong with
Carrots?”

“They’re all sore,” went on Sammy. “Nick Apthorp――he’s the guy that
pinched our sign――him and Blowhard Compton an’ the gang all give it
out――an’ they stuck our sign up on the ole sycamore an’ spit on it;
yes that’s what they done,” repeated Sammy rapidly as he saw the news
was sensational. “They spit on it an’ give it out if we go over there
Saturday it’s goin’ to be rough house an’ that you’ll get yours,” he
concluded nodding toward Art.

“They will? Like nothin’!” exclaimed Colly Craighead. “I reckon we can
raise as many guys as they can.”

“Anyway,” broke in Art――but thoughtfully――“we’ll have to go ahead now.
We can’t back water, can we, kids?”

Two more of the young aviators were present, Frank or “Wart” Ware as he
was known, and Alexander Conyers, usually known as Connie.

“Not on your life,” shouted Wart.

But Connie was not quite so sure. Connie, next to Art in age, was
perhaps the strongest of all the Elm Street crowd, and somewhat
strangely, usually the slowest to get into trouble.

“That’s a tough mob over there,” he ventured at last. “Kid to kid I
think they’ve got us outclassed. We’ll save a lot of trouble by goin’
some other place.”

“But it’s the best open ground around town,” argued Art. “Those
fellows don’t own it.”

“But they think they do,” went on Connie. “And I don’t know whether
we’d be able to show ’em they don’t.”

“Maybe we’d better think this thing over,” answered Art after some
thought. “That is, we’d better decide just how we’re to tackle these
fellows. But we’ll pull off our show and it’ll be just where we said it
would be, if I’m the only exhibitor and I get the lickin’ of my life.”

Instantly all the others protested allegiance――Sammy Addington most
vociferously. But it could be seen that a shadow had fallen on the
brilliant program announced for Saturday.

“My father knows the town marshal. We could――”

But that idea went no further. To Art and Conyers and Craighead, Sammy
might as well have suggested that they call on their mothers for
protection. If any hint of the impending embarrassment reached parental
ears all knew that the tournament would be squelched.

“Besides,” argued Colly, “if it’s to come to a show-down at last, we
might as well go up against it and lick ’em or take our medicine. How
do you vote, Connie?”

“Well,” answered the chunky little warrior screwing up his mouth as if
yet in doubt, “I ain’t keen for scraps――if they’re real――an’ I guess
this’d be more’n just makin’ faces――but I’m tired o’ bein’ called a
milksop, whatever that means. If you fellows mean business I reckon you
won’t have to get a search warrant to find me.”

“That settles it,” announced Art. “Sammy, you an’ Colly get out and
round up the kids. Ever’body’s got to know just what’s comin’ off.
We’ll have a special meetin’ o’ the club to-night an’ count noses.”

“Better count ’em before Saturday,” interrupted Connie, “or some of ’em
may look like two.”

“Mebbe,” retorted Art, “but Carrots Compton ain’t big enough to make me
jump in the river. Don’t forget that.”

It was hardly dark before nearly every Elm Street boy had assembled at
the garage. The council of war proceeded without lights and in subdued
voices. In fact a few younger members were too agitated to talk above
a frightened whisper. Early in the meeting George Atkins, nine years
old, and Davy Cooke, who had a withered left arm, were newly sworn
to reveal nothing they had heard, “especially to your fathers and
mothers,” and excused from the bloody conspiracy.

Then, with varying degrees of valor, they signed the following articles
of war: “I hereby give my word of honor that next Saturday I will be
present at the Sycamore Pasture at two o’clock and follow each order
and command of Arthur Trevor, our president, so far as I am able,
and that whatever happens I will not peach.” Then followed the names
of eleven boys,――those named before and Lewis Ashwood, Paul Corbett,
Duncan Easton, Roger Mercer, Sandy Sheldon and Phil Abercrombie.

When Art finally made his way onto the porch where his mother awaited
him, she said:

“Arthur, what was the meeting about? Your tournament?”

“Yes, mother,” responded her son, with a smile, “we’re getting ready to
have quite a time.”

“That’s nice,” replied his mother. “I hope the cleverest boys will win.”

“I reckon they will,” answered Art smiling.

CHAPTER II

AN EMISSARY FROM THE ENEMY

Art Trevor had caught the aeroplane craze early in the spring. In June
it seemed as if every boy in the Elm Street district had gone in for
toy airships and the sport of flying them. The best news stand in the
town had a ready sale for everything that related to aeroplanes, and
Art went so far as to become a regular subscriber to a high-priced
English magazine on aeronautics.

A week after school closed, the Elm Street boy who didn’t own a
collection of toy aeroplanes was the exception. But by this time, toy
machines had begun to pall on the president of the club. After spending
all the money he had in purchasing detailed plans for various toy
machines, Art began to have higher ideas. While his fellow club members
were yet whittling and pasting miniature Bleriot, Wright and Curtiss
fliers, Art was dreaming of a real machine.

How he or the Young Aviators Club might acquire a practical aeroplane
was a problem ever in Art’s mind. There were two reasons why he did not
lay the matter before his father: First, he knew his parent would laugh
at him. Second, he could not if he wanted to, as his father was in
Europe on legal business. Mr. Trevor was not much given to mechanics,
although he was what is called a “boys’ man” and fond of having Art’s
friends about him. Although Mr. Trevor was due to reach home again on
the evening of tournament day, Art had no idea that this would help him
get a real aeroplane.

For one thing, however, Art was grateful. His father was not expected
to reach Scottsville until eight o’clock Saturday evening. Therefore,
Art’s one care was to keep all hint of the impending contest from
his mother’s ears. Friday had been set aside for finishing touches
on machines and for preliminary try-outs. But, somehow, the coming
tournament did not make Friday a very busy work day. As the club
members gathered in the workroom they were received with cautions of
silence into a new council of war.

Alex Conyers had just heard that Sammy Addington’s father owned the
Sycamore Tree Pasture. If that were true the Goosetown gang might be
barred from the premises. The only thing necessary would be to lay the
matter before Mr. Addington, who no doubt would be glad to serve notice
on the loafers to get off his property. Connie called the members
together and excitedly submitted his information.

“Tell father?” exclaimed Sammy Addington. “Not on your tin. He’s wise.
He’d stop the whole thing. Anyway, you can bet I’d be left at home.”

“You ain’t very big, Sammy,” retorted Connie with a laugh, “to be so
eager for gore.”

“I’m just this eager,” exclaimed Sammy as he drew a strange article
from his pocket and, stretching his thumb and fingers through five
holes in the brassy looking object, he struck it soundly on the
workbench.

“What’s that?” asked Art.

“What’s that?” repeated Sammy drawing himself up. “It ain’t a that.
Them’s knuckles――regular knuckles. I borrowed them from our chauffeur.
An’ they’re mainly for Nick Apthorp’s cocoanut.”

Without hesitation Art reached forward and slipped the dreadful weapon
of attack from Sammy’s chubby and clenched hand.

“How’d you like to have a revolver?” he asked sarcastically.

“I ain’t got none,” answered Sammy dejectedly.

Art took the belligerent Sammy by the shoulders and faced him about.

“Do you want to be there?” Art asked.

“Sure,” replied the younger boy.

“Then remember this,” announced Art. “It’s an aeroplane tournament.
Bring your machines and these.” As he concluded he held up his two bare
hands.

Sammy reached for the prohibited article of offense with a crestfallen
air.

“How about notifyin’ the Goosetowners to vacate?” resumed Alex Conyers.

“What for?” asked Art.

“So’s we can hold our meet in peace.”

“And be ‘milksops’?” sneered Art. “I think it’s time to decide this
thing. Mebbe we’ll get licked. But we can be game and take our
trimmin’. I reckon ‘milksops’ don’t do that.”

A murmur of approval arose, enthusiastic on the part of some and less
vigorous in others. Sammy Addington was loudest in commendation. At the
same time he continually felt of another round, hard object in his
trousers pocket――a smooth stone tied in a corner of his handkerchief.
But he did not exhibit this. Plainly, any one――Nick Apthorp or Carrots
Compton――who encountered Sammy on the theory that he was a “mama’s boy”
might have a sudden awakening.

“Then it’s war to the knife?” laughed Connie.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Art answered.

“Me too,” sounded from half a dozen others and so it was agreed.

During the day there were attempts to give serious attention to “tuning
up” the miniature models. Sammy Addington, who usually carried two
machines wherever he went, and whose three-foot _Dart_ (Bleriot model)
had a good chance in that class of machines, was apparently wholly
prepared for the meet. Noticing his idleness Colly Craighead asked him:

“What you going in for, Sammy?”

“Nick Apthorp,” was the instant answer. Then recalling his wits, he
added, “I mean everything, from the three-footers down.”

That evening when the club was holding another meeting Sandy Sheldon
falteringly handed President Trevor this note:

    “Members Young Aveaturs Club, dear sirs.

    “I am sory I cannot attend on the meat to-morrow for I
    have inexcusably to go to the country with my famly in the
    automobeel. Hopping you will excuse me I am respectably
    yours                                       Roger Mercer.”

“What is the pleasure of the members?” asked Art, without trying to
conceal his contempt.

“I move, Mr. President,” exclaimed Wart Ware, “that Roge Mercer be
expelled hereby from this club for keeps for showin’ the white feather.”

A chorus seconded the motion and the president was about to put the
motion when Alex Conyers protested.

“What’s the sense of that?” he asked. “Roge is all right. Mebbe what he
says is true.”

“All in favor of firin’ Roge Mercer out o’ this club say ‘aye,’”
announced Art aggressively.

There was a war of “ayes,” in the midst of which one “no” was heard.
But Alex made no further protest and Roger Mercer’s name was crossed
from the roll.

It is proper to say, as a further historical detail, that little of the
tense excitement that pervaded the Elm Street meeting was to be found
at the Friday session of the “Sycamore Tree” loafers of the Goosetown
gang. Certainly the latter made no preliminary preparations. Aside
from Nick Apthorp and Carrots Compton, who seemed to have private
griefs against any one who might be suspected of being a friend of
Artie Trevor, “the milksop swell,” those who thought anything about the
possible mix-up, considered it largely as a light diversion. All except
Hank Milleson. Hank was not alarmed but he was doubtful.

Saturday morning the Elm Streeters had the unmistakable looks of
conspirators. Their ordinary costumes had given place to old tennis
trousers and shirts――Sammy Addington appeared once in heavy football
shoes which, at his president’s suggestion, he removed before noon.
Nearly every one had some treasured article that he put aside in Art’s
tool box――knives, watch fobs, stick pins and one compass. At noon
the last meal was eaten, and President Trevor checked up his full
squad――not one detained by parental suspicion.

By this time one would have thought the afternoon’s program consisted
of nothing but a prearranged pitched battle. Alex Conyers had to make a
few remarks to dispel this delusion――since President Trevor seemed as
absent-minded as the others.

“Don’t forget,” exclaimed Connie, “that you’ll have to take your
airships if you mean to race ’em. If we have to scrap, we’ll scrap,
but, by jickey, don’t start out as if that’s all you’re a-lookin’
for. Why you haven’t even got the _Dart_,” continued Connie pointing
to Sammy Addington who stood by with two of his smallest and oldest
machines.

“I ain’t a-goin’ to take no risk,” retorted Sammy. “In case we have to
surrender they can have these,” holding up his battered veterans. “But
what’s the use o’ takin’ chances on the _Dart_? I reckon you don’t know
she cost seven dollars!”

“That’s givin’ up before you see the enemy,” laughed Connie.

“Go get the _Dart_,” ordered Trevor instantly. “Be game.”

A suggestion of this sort was all that Sammy needed. At the same time,
he felt again of the rock tied in his handkerchief. This boded no good
to Nick Apthorp.

One of the routes to reach Sycamore Tree Pasture was by the main street
of Scottsville to the north town limits, thence by a rackety, vibrating
suspension bridge across Green River to the “pike” that turned east
along the river. Another, and a more popular way with all the boys,
was by way of the near-by railroad bridge. There was no footway for
pedestrians on this, and the walk over the unprotected, open ties was
therefore dangerous enough to be alluring.

An additional attraction of the smoky old railroad bridge was that one
was apt to meet older acquaintances there, for which reason it was a
favorite resort for boys playing hooky. Here, safely concealed on the
lower crosspieces or hidden on the stone abutments on the upper side
of the bridge, they might smoke forbidden cigarettes in safety. The
railroad bridge was in the territory of the “Goosetown gang.” Boldly
bearding the lions in their den, the aviators decided to approach the
scene of the tournament by this dangerous trail. As usual it was over
Alex Conyers’ protest.

“If you’re afraid,” suggested the valiant young president to Connie,
“why don’t you get your father’s chauffeur and ride over in the
machine?”

“I’m just tellin’ you,” was Connie’s only answer. “But go ahead; I’ll
be with you.”

A little before two o’clock ten boys, ranging in age from twelve to
sixteen years, the charter members of the Elm Street Young Aviators
Club, with President Trevor and Alex Conyers in front, started across
the open ties of the railroad bridge.

Green River, hardly more than a succession of pools, lay along the
north end of Scottsville. The much discussed pasture was a smooth and
closely cropped stretch of land extending from the north end of the
bridge to the old milldam a quarter of a mile to the west.

One glance through the open ironwork of the bridge told the approaching
cohort that the enemy was ahead of them. Only a few hundred yards from
the bridge, on a bank slightly elevated above the river, stood the big
sycamore, the remaining monarch of many others that had fallen and had
been carried away for firewood. Beneath its far-stretching arms lounged
a group of boys.

“How many?” asked Art of Connie.

“Six or seven,” was Connie’s reply. “But don’t worry. The day’s young.”

“We’ll march straight by ’em,” added Art, “and up to where the pasture
is broad and open, ’bout halfway to the dam. Here, fellows,” he went
on, facing his followers, “don’t line up that way, two and two like a
Sunday School parade. Scatter out. That’s one reason these guys give us
the laugh.”

It was difficult to “scatter out” on the narrow railroad track but
the boys did it as well as they could. When the center pier of the
bridge was reached Art and Connie came to a sudden stop, while the
eight boys behind them crowded against them. A freckle-faced lad, broad
of shoulder, with a collarless flannel shirt, barefooted and smoking
a stubby black pipe, had been discovered standing within the truss
uprights. With a peculiar smile he took a puff on his pipe. Art was
about to speak when Connie took his arm and the two leaders started
ahead.

“What’s doin’, kids?” remarked the boy at this move. “Where’s the
party? Picnic?”

“Better come along and see,” retorted Art.

“Is this little Artie an’ his playmates?”

“It is, Flatfoot Hank!” exclaimed Art――for the boy was Hank Milleson,
one of the Goosetown leaders. “Like to meet some of ’em?”

“I been waitin’ here fur you――all of you. Say,” he went on, and now the
banter had gone out of his voice, “youse guys is goin’ over there to
the paster to start somethin’, lookin’ fur trouble, ain’t you?”

“Supposin’ we are?” sneered Art.

“Well, what’s the use o’ that?” went on Hank. “That place kind o’
belongs to us. What’d you pick out our campin’ grounds fur?”

“Because they suited us,” responded Art, red in the face. “What you
goin’ to do about it?”

“Nothin’. Only I thought I’d hang ’round here an’ ast you not to go.”

“I reckon you think we’re scared,” piped a voice. It was Sammy
Addington, doing his best to get to the front.

“I guess you ain’t scared enough,” answered Hank.

“What you gettin’ at, Milleson?” broke in Alex Conyers.

“The boys has agreed,” explained Hank, “if you guys’ll go ’round by the
pike and do your playin’ up by the dam, we’ll start nothin’.”

“Oh, they have, have they?” almost shouted Art. “Well, we’ve agreed
that the whole bunch o’ you are a lot of bluffs. An’ the first loafer
that gets in our path’ll get a swift smash in the jaw.”

THE BATTLE AT THE OLD SYCAMORE

As the defiant Trevor rallied his supporters and renewed the march
across the bridge, there was no sign of retaliation on Hank’s face. The
truth is that Hank, so far as his training permitted, had gone out of
his way to do a good turn. It had been a failure. By the time Captain
Trevor reached the end of the bridge, Hank had newly charged his pipe.

“Leastways,” he said to himself as he took the trail of the
aeroplane-laden boys, “I done what I could. I’ll foller along now an’
see what kind o’ front the ginks can put up. An’ there’s a chanst ’at
Carrots may need a little help ’fore he puts over that jumpin’ act he
promised.”

Alex Conyers made a last appeal to Art to stick to the railroad until
it crossed the pike. He tried to argue that this was the natural road
to reach the place where they meant to start their program. If there
was any one in the crowd that approved this change of plans he did not
speak.

“Kids,” exclaimed Art pompously as he gave Connie a look of
impatience――almost of defiance――and pointed straight up the river
toward the old sycamore, “there lies our path.”

“Come on, them ’ats comin’,” shouted another voice and Sammy Addington
sprang forward, scrambling down the steep embankment toward the almost
certain field of battle.

His fellow club members, even to Alex Conyers, fell into his wake. When
a wire fence was reached there was a pause. In the short interval Hank
Milleson joined the party.

“Say, kiddos,” he began anew, apparently in good humor, “how about
comps to the show? If they’s any free passes I’d like to give the gang
an invite.”

“You saw the bill,” exclaimed Conyers, glad of any chance to placate
the enemy. “It says admission free.”

“Free to decent kids, not to bums and loafers,” broke in Art angrily.
“You can’t put that over on us, Flatfoot,” he shouted.

“Say, Artie,” replied Hank slowly. “I guess I’m a loafer, but I ain’t
a bum. Ain’t you gettin’ purty fresh?”

“What you goin’ to do about it?”

“Me? Oh, nothin’――now. But don’t call me no bum. Tain’t nothin’ to call
a kid a ‘sis’ or a ‘milksop.’ But it kind o’ means sumpin’ bad to call
him a bum. A bum’s a feller ’at hangs ’round saloons――or a hobo. I
ain’t that――yet.”

This speech created a sensation among the still panting boys. Even
their impulsive leader flushed. At any other time Art’s sense of
fairness would have made him sorry for his words. Now, afraid of
showing weakness, he made matters worse.

“That kind of stuff ain’t a goin’ to get our goat, Flatfoot,” he
retorted. “Come on, boys!”

In another instant the crowd had worked itself through the fence and
was advancing toward the big tree. For a moment Alex Conyers lingered
behind where Hank Milleson, still smoking his pipe, leaned against a
post.

“You belong to that gang, don’t you?” remarked Hank.

“Yes,” answered Connie.

“You licked Matt Branson once, didn’t you? When Matt was going to
school?”

“He said he had enough,” confessed Connie.

“Well,” added Hank clearing the fence with a bound, “fur the good o’
everybody I think you and me better move along.”

Before Hank and Connie caught the advancing party it had come to a
sudden halt. Seven shiftless, carelessly dressed young idlers who had
been lying under the hollow sycamore had half risen and were sitting
with their knees on their hands. All seemed highly amused. Art Trevor
was standing ahead of his companions. Nick Apthorp, one of the seven,
had been the first to speak.

“Hello kids. What’s doin’?”

“None of your business,” answered Sammy Addington.

“Does your mamas know you’re over here where the bad boys is?” shouted
Job Wilkes with a laugh.

There was no answer except closer set lips. But not one of the
Goosetowners rose to his feet. Hank and Connie coming up, the latter
hurried to Art and whispered: “Come on.” There was a general movement
forward. For a moment it looked as if hostilities would be averted.

But the last remark had sunk deep into young Trevor’s heart. Thrusting
Connie aside he almost ran to the big tree. There, yet besmeared with
Carrots Compton’s tobacco quid, hung the stolen poster. Connie rushed
after the white-faced leader but Art was not to be stopped. Tearing the
poster loose he whirled on the surprised Goosetowners.

“The fellow that did that’s a coward!” shouted Art, his lips trembling.

“I done it,” shouted Carrots Compton. “What――”

Before he could add more Art had slapped the poster, quid and all,
against Carrots’ face. The next instant Carrots was in Hank Milleson’s
arms and Alex Conyers had a close grip on Art.

“Let ’em go, let ’em loose!” shouted a dozen voices.

The struggling four were at once lost in a jam of all the others, each
eager to get close to the would-be combatants. In the first clash,
while the Goosetowners and Elm Streeters resembled a mass of football
players after a tackle, a cry sounded that each boy recognized. There
was a sudden loosening of the tangle and Nick Apthorp, with another
cry, threw his hands to his head. As he drew them back a new howl went
up. His fingers were covered with blood, which was trickling from a cut
on his forehead.

“I’m stabbed,” wailed Nick. “I’m stabbed!”

Hostilities ceased. Even Carrots and Art were released, while Hank and
Connie turned toward the wounded boy. It wasn’t a stab but a bad break
of the skin. Connie even volunteered the use of his handkerchief as a
bandage――there was probably not one in the enemy’s ranks. But, before
it could be applied, and one of Nick’s pals had already rushed down the
river bank to fill the beer can with water, there was a new commotion.

“There he goes! That’s the guy.”

Seventeen pairs of eyes made out Sammy Addington scurrying like a colt
toward the railroad. Sammy had been avenged. He had “got his man.” Nick
Apthorp sprang forward but a new trickle of warm blood stopped him and
there arose new wails about being stabbed.

“I’ll kill him,” moaned Nick sinking to his knees while Hank bound up
his wound.

“Shut up, you boob,” exclaimed Hank. “It’s only a scratch.”

“He stabbed me,” wailed Nick.

“Stabbed nothin’,” sneered Hank. “He got you with a dornick.”

The clashing bodies had moved apart but no truce had been declared.
No one made an attempt to pursue Sammy, who was now on the railroad
bridge and still in motion. Connie yet had hopes of preventing another
clash and was giving his attention to his captain. Trevor was hurling
defiance at Carrots who was pouring forth a volley of profanity.

“That shows ’em up,” broke in Job Wilkes rushing to Carrots’ side.
“Look out! They all got knives.”

“It’s a lie!” shouted Alex Conyers whirling toward Wilkes. “We don’t
want trouble, but if you got to have it you don’t need to holler.”

But Wilkes’ mind was on Art.

“Go get him, Carrots,” he yelled, pushing Compton forward.

“He’s a big bluff. Don’t stand for it.”

Spurred on, Compton made a new rush for Trevor. But something
intervened. It was knotty little Connie’s fist. Carrots always
insisted it wasn’t fair, that he wasn’t fighting Connie. Just the
same, as Carrots lunged past Connie, the latter caught him on the
jaw so cleverly that Carrots dropped. Like a cat Job Wilkes was on
Connie’s back. In a flash the fight was on again with Nick Apthorp on
the side-lines, whimpering and nursing the knob on his head, and Hank
Milleson pawing his way into the center of the fray and yelling for
fair play.

For perhaps five minutes the vicinity resounded with the noises that
accompany boyish fights; grunts, exploding breaths, whimpering, howls,
cries, half in defiance and half in protest, and, with it all the
unmistakable commotion of jarring bodies. Now and then there was the
crack of a blow struck, but not often. Even the bitterest boy battle
rarely reaches the point of serious bodily injury.

Then, when the confusion of cries reached its height and nearly all
were yelling “leggo my hair!” or “he’s bitin’ me!” (even in the
juvenile world an inexcusable barbarism) or “he’s chokin’ me!” the
furious tempest suddenly began to calm. The first drops of blood are
wonderfully quieting.

One of the first to escape from the wriggling mass was Wart Ware. A
sleeve of his shirt was gone, his hat was missing and his nose was
bleeding freely. His fighting spirit was gone but he continued to
struggle in Matt Branson’s neck-hold. At last, his mouth filled with
blood, he yelled “Enough!”

Phil Abercrombie and Lew Ashwood were in no better condition. Buck
Bluett and Mart Clare, both outclassing their opponents, had forced
these “middle-weight” aviators into each other’s arms and were
vigorously pounding their heads together. Phil was yet feebly defiant,
but Lew had reached the point where he only groaned with each new knock.

With the first let-up in hair-pulling and punching noses a quartette
of Elm Streeters made a feeble dash toward the river bank, where not
less than twenty miniature aeroplanes had been deposited on the first
sign of trouble. Colly Craighead, Paul Corbett, Duke Easton and Sandy
Sheldon thought of these treasures apparently at the same time. Boys
who won’t run away from a scrap have a way of suddenly remembering
duties that are instantly imperative.

But Joe Andrews, Tom Bates and Nick Apthorp (who had now rejoined the
combatants) were in close pursuit.

“Head ’em off!” yelled Nick.

Grabbing a tree limb about two feet long he hurled it toward the
fugitives. It struck Colly Craighead on the arm. Before the exhausted
boy could recover himself he had stumbled and fallen on the pile of
aeroplanes.

The three Goosetowners were on him in an instant, trampling on the
delicate models and striking right and left with broken silk-covered
frames. Colly’s friends, in a last hopeless effort, frenzied with the
sickening crack of their wrecked prides, made an attempt to rally. But
it was useless.

Craighead rolled out of the wreckage and, bewildered with pain,
tumbled over the river bank onto a bed of gravel. His three companions
sprang after him. There was a momentary attempt to renew the battle by
throwing gravel and such rocks as they could find. But each knew he was
licked. Their assailants withdrew in contempt and rejoined the struggle
yet in progress between the older boys.

Job Wilkes had apparently taken good advantage of his sneaking attack
on Alex Conyers. When Hank Milleson had managed to pull the others
off the prostrate pair, Wilkes was on Connie’s back with his hands
around the under boy’s throat. Carrots Compton was nursing his jaw and
temporarily out of the mix-up. Art Trevor had plunged to Connie’s aid.

“None o’ that!” roared Hank. “It’s one to one here. You wanted trouble
an’ you got it.”

Without a pause Art swerved his attack to Hank. In an instant the two
leaders were in each other’s arms and in another moment Art was on his
back looking up into Hank’s half-smiling face. But the overconfident
Hank held his opponent too lightly. Art had a smattering of wrestling
knowledge. His face distorted with anger, he shut his eyes for a moment
as if in surrender. As Hank gave him a laughing smack on the cheek
the under boy whirled himself over with a snake-like wriggle and then
shoved himself with a second lightning-like motion to his hands and
knees.

The astonished Hank instantly recognized his danger from a wrestling
standpoint, and threw himself heavily on Art’s back in an effort
to crush him flat again. But the movement was what the “milksop”
anticipated. Hank was quick enough with his body but he failed to duck
his head. Art’s strong arms and legs met the crushing attack and then
in a flash his right arm flew up and clamped Hank’s head in a vice.

There was a first sharp downward jerk of Trevor’s arm and Hank’s head
slipped forward over the under boy’s shoulder. Another yank and Hank’s
neck bones creaked. There was a groan from the boy on top as his heavy
body bowed itself upward to lessen the pain and then, Art’s muscles
quivering and his mouth open, his arm locked itself completely around
Hank’s neck. With the same motion Art’s body bounded upward and the
panting, struggling Hank shot into the air. As the flying body struck
the ground with a crash, Art was up and on his opponent like a cat.

Half stunned, Hank made an effort to clasp Art’s body, but Trevor was
too quick for him. Throwing himself on Milleson’s chest with crushing
force, the Elm Street boy pinned his opponent to the ground and then
“roughed” his head against Hank’s nose.

“That’s enough,” yelled a voice in Art’s ear. “Let him up. You win.”

It was Connie. His own battle had been soon over, although he had not
resorted to the professional tricks his chum had used. Three or four
sound blows on Job’s face and neck had forced an abject surrender.
Carrots Compton and Connie had not joined issues, each pausing to watch
the big fight.

“You done it, Artie,” gasped the almost breathless Hank.

Carrots Compton, carried away by the sight of the clever contest, stood
by in open admiration. As Trevor rose to his feet, his shirt torn,
rents in each knee of his trousers, his hair wet with perspiration, his
muscles yet trembling and his lips quivering with unsatisfied anger, he
caught sight of his avowed enemy.

“Now you red-headed bluff,” shouted Art, “I’m ready for you. There’s
the river you’re goin’ to make me jump in! You big loafer and bum,” he
added, his eyes feverish with anger. “I’ll give you a minute to start
tryin’ or I’ll throw _you_ in.”

There was no escape for Carrots. As Hank scrambled onto his feet a
dozen begrimed, blood-spotted and clothing-torn boys quickly formed a
circle.

“That’s the stuff,” shouted Nick Apthorp, forgetting his own bandaged
head. “Give ’em room. Let ’em scrap it out. A bottle o’ beer on little
Artie,” he added. But there were no takers of his wager. Carrots had
shot forward with head down. But he landed in Hank Milleson’s arms.

“Cheese it, kids,” shouted Hank as he whirled Carrots to his feet. “The
marshal’s comin’.”

One glance toward the railroad bridge revealed the well-known blue
uniform of Marshal Chris Walter. And it was advancing at the old man’s
best pace. Close behind waddled Sammy Addington. By the time Old Chris
reached the big sycamore the only Goosetowners or Elm Streeters to be
seen were those just disappearing above the river dam.

CHAPTER IV

THE BITTER FRUITS OF DEFEAT

When the fugitives had time to take stock, the Elm Streeters decided
that the personal victories of Art and Connie were so completely
overshadowed by the rout of the other boys that the day was
irretrievably lost. Bloody noses and torn clothing were not counted.
But the destruction and loss of the prized aeroplanes was despair
itself.

“They could be arrested,” suggested Colly Craighead, rubbing his
injured arm and still breathing vengeance.

“I’d cut out that kind of talk,” exclaimed Alex Conyers. “Don’t be
sore. Hank Milleson did his best to head you off. You got what you was
tryin’ to give an’ that was enough. Be game.”

“I reckon that’s right,” broke in Art, lying flat on his back. “We
outnumbered ’em an’ we did a little dirty work too. Sammy ought to get
his for usin’ a rock. It kind o’ tickled me though to see the kid hand
it to that big stiff. At that, it wasn’t much worse ’an Job Wilkes
jumpin’ on Connie’s back.”

The Goosetowners had a flat-bottomed skiff moored just above the dam.
All of these boys had jumped into the boat and were already lost to
view behind the Big Willow Bend. The Elm Streeters were recovering
their wind, sprawled on the high bank under the leaning walnut tree
just above the dam. A look-out kept an eye on the marshal, who lingered
for a time at the scene of the fight and then retired, followed by
his informer, Sammy Addington. Sammy would have made an attempt to
rejoin his chums but as he was just as likely to run into the enemy he
discreetly withdrew under convoy of Old Chris.

“I got all the toy aeroplane business I want,” remarked Connie,
ignoring Art’s comment. “It is kind o’ sissy at that.” He was gazing
longingly at the dammed-up stretch of blue water before him. “Let’s go
swimmin’.”

“Last one in’s a nigger baby!” yelled Wart Ware.

There was a whirlwind of flying clothes, shoes and stockings.

“Say,” exclaimed Trevor, “here!” The scurrying boys paused in various
stages of disrobing. “Let’s all throw in our money an’ have a real
aeroplane.”

“A real aeroplane?” came instantly from two or three.

“Two or three thousand dollars!” shouted Alex Conyers, rolling over in
high glee. “Let’s make a steam engine, too.”

“Three thousand dollars nothin’,” snorted Art. “There ain’t a thing
about an aeroplane except the engine us kids can’t make. You know that.”

“Except the engine,” laughed Connie anew. “Why don’t you say ‘we
can――only we can’t’? You mean a glider?”

“I don’t mean anything but what I said,” came back Art resentfully.
“What d’you suppose an engine costs?”

“A Curtiss costs about twelve hundred dollars,” replied Colly Craighead
proudly.

“It does,” answered Art. “But a pack o’ kids don’t need to count on
going for the altitude record or on crossin’ the continent. There’s
a firm in Philadelphia makin’ a four-cylinder, twenty horse power,
air-cooled motor that’s guaranteed to speed up to eighteen hundred
revolutions a minute. An’ it only weighs a hundred pounds.”

“How much?” came in a prompt chorus.

“Only four hundred and ninety dollars,” answered Art emphasizing the
“only.”

“Only!” repeated Alex Conyers raising his arms. “Only! Why don’t you
say ‘only a million’? Where’d this gang ever raise four hundred and
ninety dollars?”

“That ain’t fifty dollars apiece,” argued Art.

“Have you fifty dollars?” retorted Alex.

“I have――a hundred and twelve dollars――right now――in the bank.”

“An’ you couldn’t get a cent of it lessen your pa said so. I see your
father lettin’ you have it――like fun.”

“How much’d the other fixin’s cost?” broke in Wart Ware. “But I ain’t
got no fifty dollars. I had fifteen dollars, though, last Christmas,”
he went on. “But I spent it,” he was forced to add regretfully.

“There ain’t anything else that’d cost much,” began Art anew. “Some
pieces of spruce, an’ some cheap silk, an’ some varnish, an’ some piano
wire, an’ turnbuckles――”

“How about a couple o’ propellers?” asked pessimistic Alex. “They
don’t give ’em away I reckon and most flyin’ machines have ’em.”

“Personally,” announced Art, “I’ve always been in for a single
propeller machine.”

“Well,” conceded Alex with more interest, “a single propeller would cut
down the cost. It’d save on shafting an’ motor connections. Say ’at the
engine cost four hundred and ninety dollars, the propeller twenty-five,
an’ everything else one hundred.”

“A hundred for a little silk an’ wire an’ a few sticks?” snorted Art.
“What are you thinkin’ about?”

“Well,” went on Alex, “say it did. That’s six hundred an’ fifteen
dollars. Let’s hear from the treasurer. What’s in the treasury, Duke?”

Treasurer Duncan Easton, at these words, gasped, grew redder and then
made a wild scramble to locate his clothing.

“Who’s got my pants?” he yelled. “It’s all in my pants.”

“All that prize money?” shouted the president of the club. “That three
dollars and eighty cents?”

The naked treasurer’s only response was a lunge into a heap of
garments out of which he finally extracted the valuable trousers. There
was a swift search of both pockets and then a scared face told the
story.

“’Tain’t gone?” came anxiously from Connie.

“I had to bring it,” whimpered Treasurer Easton. “It was for the
prizes. I’ve lost it.”

“Where?” shouted his fellow club members.

“I d-d-don’t know,” faltered Easton. Breaking into tears he made a new
search.

“That’s a hot way to carry money!” volunteered one boy. “Loose in your
pocket!”

“It――it wasn’t loose,” explained Duke, his lips quivering. “It was in a
purse.”

“Purse?” snapped another angry lad. “You ain’t got no purse.”

“It was my father’s,” explained the tearful Duke. “An’ it had
ever’body’s name in it and what they paid and all the entries.”

Art and Connie were already searching the ground round about.

“Some of you kids has got it,” wailed Duke, the thought of a possible
joke coming to him.

“Search me,” shouted a chorus of boys. Even the absurdity of searching
a boy stripped of his clothes did not appeal to the disturbed
president or the still sobbing treasurer. Connie began to laugh and
then exclaimed:

“Mebbe it’s back where the scrap was.”

Instantly Art, Connie and Duke set out on a dead run for the sycamore
tree. They were not halfway to it before the other boys, one at a time
as they scrambled into their clothes, were trailing behind. As they
reached the battlefield a familiar gang call sounded from the railroad
bridge and in a few moments Sammy Addington rejoined his chums.

“Duke lost all the money,” Art explained sullenly as he made a
preliminary survey.

“Cowardy-calf, cowardy-calf!” was Wart Ware’s salutation to Sammy. But
Sammy had no time to resent this insult immediately. He was bubbling
over with other business.

“Ole Chris got it,” he panted.

“Got my pocket book?” gasped Duke.

“Three dollars an’ eighty cents,” went on Sammy, yet out of breath.
“An’,” with a sniffle, “he’s a-goin’ to turn it over to the mayor.”

“Father’ll get it for us; he’s comin’ home to-night,” began Art. But
Sammy had more and worse news.

“An’ he’s got the papers an’ ever’body’s name,” went on the courier.
“An’ the marshal says ’at he’s goin’ to take up ever’one ’at was in the
scrap.” (“Take up” in Scottsville meant arrest and incarceration in the
lockup.)

In the solemn silence that followed, even Duke’s tears ceased to
flow. Not even Connie seemed to have a word suitable to the alarming
situation.

“Why didn’t he take you up?” It was Wart Ware who finally asked this
question.

“Me?” faltered Sammy. “Why I――I don’t know.” But there was a telltale
twitch of his lips.

“Didn’t he say why?” demanded Colly Craighead. “It’s funny he’s goin’
to put ever’body else in the lockup but you.”

Sammy only eyed his questioners and tried to turn the inquiry with a
question about the lost models.

“I’ll tell you why he let you off,” volunteered Connie as he approached
the recent fugitive. “You lied to him.”

“Don’t you call me no liar,” exclaimed Sammy boldly. “An’ I didn’t
peach. He ast me who was over here an’ I told him I was no telltale. I
wouldn’t give him not a single name. Not even a Goosetowner.”

“You’d ’a’ better not,” remarked Art significantly.

“I didn’t say you peached,” went on Connie unmoved by Sammy’s speech.
“I said you lied. I’ll tell you what you told Old Chris; you told him
they was a lot of bad boys over here fightin’ an’ ’at you run away so’s
you wouldn’t get mixed up with ’em.”

This explanation was so plausible that it did not require Sammy’s
sudden panic to convict him. There was a roar of indignation and the
gang massed around the accused. Driven to bay Sammy turned on his
denouncer. But that was hopeless. There was one other recourse.

“I didn’t neither,” he protested. Then his voice broke. “An’ if I did,”
he qualified, tears of mortification springing to his eyes, “how was I
goin’ to know he was goin’ to find the pocket book?”

“Cowardy-calf,” “runaway” and “tattletale” were the verbal returns for
this sudden candor and then, following Connie’s action, Sammy’s chums
left the little ex-warrior blubbering alone. But boy grief does not
penetrate far.

“Say, fellows,” exclaimed Sammy, wiping away his tears and trying to
smile, “Ole Peg Leg Warner’s fishin’ over on the bridge and he got a
bass ’at weighed four pounds or more.”

Ordinarily this would have been the signal for a stampede. But the
alluring bait was ignored.

“Go away,” was Art’s command. “We’re through with you.”

But while the other boys made their way slowly toward the pile of torn
and broken aeroplanes, Sammy stood his ground.

“I don’t have to go away,” he retorted. “I can stay here if I want to.
You don’t own this paster.”

“Then stay here,” shouted Art. “We’re goin’. An’ don’t you come in my
yard again or in our garage, Tattletale.”

“I can come and get my knife and aeroplane an’ things,” retorted
Sammy in half appeal. “An’ me and my folks is goin’ away up to Lake
Maxinkuchee and stay all summer an’ I’m goin’ to have a sailboat, too.”

This last appeal to his friends was Spartanly ignored as was the
statement in relation to Sammy’s personal property. But the incensed
club members had one last rejoinder. After a quick conference Connie
delivered it.

“You’d better,” he announced. “You’re goin’ to be expelled from the
club.”

“Who cares?” exclaimed Sammy. “My ma told me I got to quit anyway,
’cause I’m goin’ to go away an’ sail my new boat.” To save further
embarrassment, Sammy added: “I got to go now. Peg Leg’s goin’ to lend
me one of his bass lines.”

The consensus of opinion concerning the sailboat was that it was a
hastily improvised figment of the imagination. The boast, however,
was enough to insure Sammy’s expulsion, which was done instantly and
somewhat informally. Collecting what remained of the beloved toys, the
members of the club, dejected, dispirited and genuinely alarmed over
the possible result of Old Chris’s promised action, took immediate
council.

There was a suggestion that, it being only four o’clock, there was yet
time for a swim. But this idea seemed to meet with no favor. On the
other hand it was just possible that Marshal Walter might be on the
look-out near the railroad bridge. Just then one of the boys, glancing
toward the dam, saw three ominous looking Goosetowners who were
evidently returning to their stamping grounds.

“Who’s afraid of Old Chris,” exclaimed Wart Ware promptly. “I got some
errands to do at home.”

The defeated lads instantly set out at a good pace toward the bridge.
They were not surprised when they failed to find Sammy Addington in
Peg Leg Warner’s company, nor little more so when Peg told them that
his big bass didn’t weigh over a pound and a half. At the town end of
the bridge――happily Marshal Walter was not in sight――the subdued club
members separated and as a precautionary measure made their way home
singly.

Art Trevor saw fit to approach his own home by way of the alley. In the
garage he did the best he could to make himself presentable and then
he fell to his aeroplane plans. At five thirty o’clock, with assumed
gayety, he rushed around to the front porch. As he expected, his mother
was there.

“Arthur,” she said at once, “Marshal Walter has been here and told me
what happened this afternoon. Are you hurt?”

“No, mother. I――”

“That’s enough, Arthur. This is a matter for your father. It will give
him a fine home-coming. You have been a very bad boy.”

CHAPTER V

MR. TREVOR’S MYSTERIOUS INVITATION

Mr. Trevor, Art’s father, had been for six weeks attending to legal
business in London. For several days his return had been eagerly
anticipated. Art’s only hope lay in his father’s jovial disposition,
his love of outdoor sports and, above all, his unusual interest in the
pleasures of boys. In this respect Mr. Trevor was different from most
men. He would leave his office to umpire a game of ball between school
nines when he could not find time to witness a professional game.

Through the dinner hour Mrs. Trevor did not speak of the fight. By that
Art knew he was approaching a crisis. Up to this time, his mother had
never hesitated to discipline him for shortcomings. Each minute his
depression deepened. The meal over, he made no attempt to leave the
house. When his mother took up the evening paper Art retired to a far
corner of the porch with a magazine.

Now and then he would glance at the hall clock. While he looked the
third time the deep gong sounded seven. He took a deep breath――only one
more hour.

Art had no way of knowing what had befallen his friends. Not a boy had
passed the house. If Old Walter had visited all the boys’ homes, Art
suspected that more than one domestic tragedy must have been enacted
already.

Just as the twilight began to make reading difficult, Art heard a slow
and familiar footstep. It was Alex Conyers. But the low-spirited boy on
the porch neither looked up nor gave salutation. Alex walked slowly as
if burdened with troubles of his own. At the lawn step he looked up,
seemed to hesitate, and then passed on.

“Alexander,” called Mrs. Trevor in a low voice, “is that you?”

“Yes’m.”

“I’d like to see you.”

Connie, hat in hand, ascended the steps with the liveliness of a
pallbearer. He glanced toward the end of the porch where Art sat,
apparently engrossed in his magazine.

“Were you with Arthur this afternoon?” asked Mrs. Trevor quietly but
pointedly.

“Yes’m,” looking intently across the street.

“Did Marshal Walter speak to your parents?”

“Yes’m,” slowly and with another furtive look toward his chum.

“What did your father think about it?”

“He said he wished I was younger so he could strap me.”

Mrs. Trevor did not smile. Then to Connie’s consternation, he knew that
Mrs. Trevor was wiping a tear from her cheek.

“But that wasn’t all,” Connie added hastily. “He told me how he had
hoped I wouldn’t grow up like that. I told him I was sorry,” and
Connie’s voice quivered a little. “Anyway I can’t go near the river
again this summer――fishin’ nor swimmin’ nor nothin’.”

“With whom were you fighting?” went on Mrs. Trevor.

At this question Connie twisted his cap, looked up in confusion and
then at the floor in silence.

“You don’t want to tell?”

“No’m.”

“Didn’t Marshal Walter ask you?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to tell him when he does?”

“No’m.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause he might take ’em up.”

“And you think you are right?”

“What good’d it do? If he arrested ’em an’ the judge fined ’em they’d
have to go to jail.”

“Well, you seem to like to associate with them. You boys appear to
enjoy their society. You could all be together.”

“Together?” repeated Connie in an alarmed voice, while Art’s magazine
fell to the floor.

“Certainly,” went on Mrs. Trevor. “The marshal says he is going to
ask the mayor if he shouldn’t arrest all of you. I suppose that means
you’ll all be put in jail.”

Connie adjusted his collar. “I think I’ve got to go now, Mrs. Trevor,”
he said at last. “It’s getting late.”

“Good night, Alexander,” replied Mrs. Trevor softly. “I feel sorry for
you and your friends.”

As Connie departed, with neither word nor look for his pal in disgrace,
Mrs. Trevor started down the steps.

“I’m going to the train, Arthur, to meet your father.”

“Shan’t I come with you?” Art asked.

“No. I want to meet your father alone and prepare him for the
reception you have arranged for him.”

This was the last straw. When a little later the repentant Art heard
the hollow blasts of the eight-o’clock express he was stretched on a
couch in the living room. There was a lump in his throat and he felt as
if he had lost every interest in life.

Connie’s talk had not made Art’s troubles lighter. Art realized that
his pal’s disgrace and punishment was due to himself more than to
Connie. Finally, to relieve his troubled conscience, he set his teeth
together and hurried to the telephone. Art called up the Conyers home
and Alex’s father answered the telephone.

“This is Arthur Trevor, Mr. Conyers,” Art hastily began, “an’ I want
to tell you what we did to-day. Yes, our fightin’. Well, Connie ain’t
to blame like I am. But you don’t understand. He ain’t a scrapper an’
he didn’t want to go an’ he tried to keep the gang from goin’. If we’d
done like he wanted, there wouldn’t nothin’ ’a’ happened. But I egged
him on. Yes, I know I’d oughtn’t an’ it was my fault. Connie argued
ever’ way to keep us out o’ trouble an’ we just pulled him in. An’
that ain’t all. He wouldn’t ’a’ got into no fight himself at all if he
hadn’t tried to keep me from fightin’. An’ then they jumped on his back
an’ he had to scrap. It was my fault all through.”

There was some conversation, Mr. Conyers’ part of which seemed to
indicate that he wasn’t at all certain of Alexander’s innocence, even
in part. Then he appeared to give Art a few words of advice and the
interview ended. There was no suggestion that Connie’s punishment would
be made lighter.

Art heard voices outside just then, and bracing himself as well as he
could, he went out to greet his father. At sight of the latter the
boy forgot the coming interview, and threw himself into his parent’s
arms. Then, in the joy of his father’s return, Art grabbed the bags
and led the way gayly into the house. His father was as smiling and
good-natured as usual.

As the excitement of the home-coming lessened into questions and
answers, the little family returned to the porch. There was not a word
of rebuke for the boy. Mr. Trevor began at once a narration of his
troubles and experiences and the neighbors began to drop in.

Not one of them referred to the catastrophe of the afternoon――although
many of the visitors were parents of the humiliated young aviators.
When Mrs. Trevor at last suggested refreshments (which she had prepared
for the occasion) and Art was called upon to assist in the serving, the
boy never performed a home service more willingly. He began to hope he
might not be wholly put out of his parents’ regard.

About eleven o’clock the last visitor withdrew and Mrs. Trevor went
into the house. A premonition came over the boy and he started after
his mother.

“Arthur,” called Mr. Trevor. “I want to see you.”

The choke came back into Art’s throat. He retraced his steps as bravely
as he could.

“Arthur, your mother has told me all that took place this afternoon.
Have you anything to say about it?”

“I suppose not, sir. Except, I’m sorry.”

“Was your trip over the river prearranged? That is, did you go
expecting a fight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were one of the leaders?”

“Yes, sir. I reckon I was _the_ leader.”

“What was your object?”

“We were goin’ to hold an aeroplane meet an’ the Goosetowners dared us.”

“Sit down,” said Mr. Trevor. As Art did so his father faced him.
“Arthur,” he went on, “I suppose you are expecting some punishment?”

“I suppose so; I reckon I deserve it.”

“I’m not going to punish you. However, you have hurt your mother and
me.”

Art’s eyes opened wide. “We have been proud of you. We have been
counting on you to grow into a high-grade young man. This weakness
disappoints us more than you know.”

“I didn’t think I was weak,” replied Art. “I fought fair an’ square.
An’ they started the trouble.”

“That’s always the town tough’s excuse,” replied Mr. Trevor, raising
his hand in protest. “It’s what the saloon brawler tells you. He’s
always in the right of it.”

“Well,” said Art, trying to win a little sympathy, “I’m sorry I’m such
a disappointment.”

“I’m glad you’re sorry,” responded his father. “It would be a heavy
blow to our hopes for your future if we thought you were going to grow
up to be a tough.”

“You always told me to be brave,” urged Art, rather hopelessly.

“Exactly,” said his father. “I’d be proud to see you defend your mother
from the attack of a thief. I’d be glad to see you risk your life to
save that of another. But would it be brave to goad a lunatic into a
frenzy that you might punish him for assaulting you?”

“These kids ain’t lunatics,” answered Art.

“Of course not,” exclaimed his father. “But they are deficient
intellectually. They have no precise standards of right and wrong.
These poor boys have never had the advantage of the training you have
had. Instead of trying to help them you have only dropped to their
level. Like stray dogs, kicked about by misfortune, they snarl at every
passer-by. Is it kindness to throw yourself in their path to be snarled
at?”

It was an elaborate figure of speech and Art did not, perhaps, get its
full meaning. But he thought it was safe to answer “No, sir,” which he
did very humbly. Then breaking down completely he added: “You’d better
lick me, father. I got ever’body in trouble. Connie tried to stop me
but I got him in. An’ he’s been punished. You’d better lick me.” Even
the sound of his son blowing his nose vigorously did not seem to move
Mr. Trevor.

“Why should I punish you?” resumed Mr. Trevor thoughtfully. “You are
old enough to know right from wrong.”

“Do you think I’m really bad?” asked Art huskily. “I didn’t know I was
so much worse than the other kids.”

“That’s it, Arthur,” answered his father. “As I get older I begin to
wonder why so many boys seem to take more pleasure in being vicious
than in being frank and generous. But,” and he almost sighed, “it seems
boys have always been that way.” Then frankly he added: “I was. I was
bad. I wasted my time. Nothing you have done to-day was beyond me when
I was your age. Later I had to pay for it and dearly. But I knew no
better. There was no one to advise me. I neglected school. I formed
habits that I was years in breaking. Your mother and I have told you,
often told you, that a helping hand to those below you and respect for
those above you are the two things worth while. Can’t you realize that
we know?”

By this time Art was almost in a state of collapse.

“I’m goin’ to try,” he managed to sob.

“Boys are boys,” his father resumed after a time. “Perhaps you are no
better and no worse than your chums. Perhaps it is our fault――their
fathers and mothers. I feel that I have been wrong. We have all allowed
you boys to drift. You’ve got to do something, you’ve got to be busy in
a good direction, or you’ll go in a bad direction. I’m going to do more
for you if I can.”

“What do you mean?” asked the surprised Art.

“To-morrow is Sunday,” continued his father. “I want you to invite all
your chums to our house for tea. I’d like to talk to them.”

“What about?” broke in Art somewhat alarmed. “I guess they’ve all been
talked to already.”

“Ask them to tea at five o’clock,” repeated his father. “I’m not going
to scold them or preach to them.”

“All of them?” asked Art.

“All the members of your club.”

“I don’t think I can ask one of ’em.” The boy hesitated. “Sammy
Addington’s been expelled.”

“What for?”

“We didn’t think he fought fair.”

“What did he do?”

“He had a rock and he slugged a boy.”

“Ask him first. And be sure he comes. This is not a club meeting,” said
Mr. Trevor.

“Father,” exclaimed the boy leaning forward as a new wave of fear swept
over him, “you ain’t goin’ to punish me before all the boys, are you?”

“My son,” replied Mr. Trevor placing his hand on one of Art’s, “I think
you have had all the punishment you’ll need. I hardly know whether it
would be right to say I’m going to forget what you’ve done, but I’m
going to forgive you.”

As Art’s head fell upon his father’s knees his mother stepped from
the dark hallway and took the distressed lad in her arms. At the same
moment his father, a little disturbed himself, handed the boy a small
mahogany box.

“Now that we understand ourselves, Arthur,” he announced, “here is a
little present for our ‘new’ boy. It is an English watch. I hope it
will always recall this day and be a sign of our new confidence in our
only boy.”

CHAPTER VI

WHAT CAME OUT OF A TEA PARTY

By five o’clock the next afternoon every member of the Young Aviators
Club was at the Trevor home, including George Atkins and Roger
Mercer, who had not been present at the fight, and the expelled Sammy
Addington. Mr. Trevor did not know that Art had been forced to use
considerable argument in a few cases. Marshal Walter’s action in
visiting the homes of nearly all the boys had brought swift parental
action. These actions ran all the way from Connie’s prohibition of
river joys to sound thrashings. Some of the boys were convinced that
Mr. Trevor’s invitation meant a second edition of punishment. They had
to be assured that it was perfectly safe to be present.

“Boys,” began Mr. Trevor when his thirteen guests had been partly
satisfied with cold meats and potato salad and were waiting for the ice
cream and cake, “I’ve asked you here to talk to you about some things
I learned and saw while I was abroad. And it isn’t about castles
or cathedrals either. It’s about something you boys are interested
in――camping out and games.”

Inquiring looks passed from boy to boy.

“I wish we could go camping like you took Art once,” suggested Wart
Ware.

“Did you see boys camping out in England?” asked Sammy, whose smiling
face could be seen next to Mrs. Trevor at the foot of the table.

“I certainly did,” answered Mr. Trevor. “And it was a mighty fine lot
of boys, every one of them looking like a gentleman.” Guilty looks
showed here and there about the table. “But I’ll come to that in a
minute. I want to tell you a story first. How many of you ever heard of
Baden-Powell?”

Dead silence followed. Then Alex Conyers said:

“It sounds like a health resort in Germany. Were you there?”

“It isn’t a health resort,” laughed Mr. Trevor. “It’s a man’s
name. But, in a way he might be called a health reviser, for it is
this man who is making so many strong vigorous gentlemen out of
thousands――hundreds of thousands――of English boys. And it is this man
who has set all young England camping out and learning the country and
the ways of outdoor-things and playing games that injure no one. He
has even made it unpopular and even unnecessary for boys to fight each
other to find fun.”

This shot went home. Thirteen boys looked at their plates or at the
ceiling in silence.

“Then he’s the Boy Scout man, isn’t he?” finally ventured Alex Conyers.

“He is. And that’s what I want to talk about. While I was in London
I met a friend, a grown man like me, who has taken a great deal of
interest in Boy Scouts and their work. On a Saturday he took me where
an encampment of Scouts was being held. Never,” went on Mr. Trevor,
leaning forward in his enthusiasm, “have I so much wanted to be a
boy again. Boys, it was great. The encampment was in a valley near a
heavy forest. There was a stream with rushes and swimming pools and
a tall white staff with the Scout flag fluttering――a flag that went
up at sunrise with salute and came down at sundown with the Scouts at
‘present arms.’ There were tents in the valley and among the trees;
company cook-houses and dining tents and shelters for Scouts by twos
and fours. Not even in the army are things neater or more in order.”

“What’d they do?” asked Colly Craighead impulsively.

“Obey orders like soldiers,” replied Mr. Trevor, “and play all day. And
in their play they learn how to do a hundred things a boy can’t learn
in school: how to track and capture an animal; how to trail a man like
the Indians and old scouts used to do; how to take care of themselves
in the woods――make camp with nothing; how to make a fire and cook; how
to help persons in trouble, to dress a wound, to revive the drowning,
to act promptly and effectively in all moments of danger; how to give a
helping hand to old and young; and how, above all, to help themselves.
In short, how to form good habits while at play――to be patriotic,
honest and generous from choice.”

“Were you in a regular Boy Scout camp?” asked Art at the first chance.

“Saturday afternoon and Sunday,” answered Mr. Trevor. “That’s why I
want to tell you boys about it.”

“An’ did this Mr. What’s-his-name make all the Boy Scouts?” inquired
Duke Easton.

“General Baden-Powell is a famous English soldier,” answered Mr.
Trevor with spirit. “And he loves his country so much that he wants all
English boys to grow up to be patriotic and brave Englishmen,” he went
on. “It’s not because he expects all Boy Scouts to become soldiers,”
explained the host, “but many English Boy Scouts will. And those that
do will have eyes and ears and hands to work with. Let me tell you why
General Baden-Powell thinks everyone should know how to see things and
know what they mean. It is an anecdote told me by General Baden-Powell
himself.

“General Baden-Powell,” went on Mr. Trevor as the boys drew their
chairs closer, “is, as I said, a great soldier. He has achieved honors
of all kinds. And he became famous because, wherever England sent
him――to Afghanistan, India, Egypt or Lower Africa――he saw things and
figured out what they meant. And,” explained the story teller with a
smile, “he saw things with his own eyes because he loved nature and was
a hunter. When he came to America, old-time scouts were his friends.
He knew Buffalo Bill, and with him shot elk and mountain sheep in the
west. Then a time came when he was sent to Central Africa to put down
the savage Matabeles. Then this thing happened:

“General Baden-Powell’s troops had been chasing the savages through an
unknown region where, among the hills, the natives easily concealed
themselves. The soldiers did their best to locate a certain band of
Matabeles but without success. Before daybreak one morning Baden-Powell
set out alone to see what he could find. Riding back and forth over the
pathless veldt, or grassy plain, he at last crossed a new trail.

“This was indicated only by the fact that in places the grass had
been bent aside. He finally found six distinct broken places showing
that six persons had passed that way. The direction was indicated by
the leaning grass. The travelers had passed that night because the
disturbed grass had not yet righted itself as it would when the sun
dried the dew.

“Hastening forward on this trail the observing soldier soon came to
an open sandy place where he saw footsteps. The prints were those of
women. He knew this by their size and the distance between them. He
searched carefully for more signs――not only in the open place but round
about it. He was rewarded. To the right he discovered a few leaves.
There were no trees in that region. The leaves had been carried there.
They were yet green. They had an odor. The scout recognized this as the
odor of a native beer. Things began to clear.

“The trained observer remembered a settlement miles away where this
beer was made. Among its ingredients were leaves such as he had found
near the trail. But what was the significance of this? The beer spoiled
easily. It had to be protected. The top of each big native bottle was
usually stopped with a bunch of these leaves. But why were the leaves
by the trail? Again the scout recalled a previously noted fact. The air
was calm then but at four o’clock that morning there had been a stiff
breeze. What was General Baden-Powell’s conclusion?

“At four o’clock that morning, six native women coming from the distant
settlement had passed the sandy spot, carrying bottles of native beer
stopped with leaves. He readily understood that they were taking the
beer to the men in the hills. These hills were about two hours distant
on foot. The women must have reached the hiding place about six
o’clock. As the beer spoiled easily in the hot country it would be
drunk at once. It was then seven o’clock. The Matabeles were at that
moment probably far gone in intoxication.

“Hastening to his camp General Baden-Powell put his troop in motion,
took the trail at once and before nine o’clock each conclusion had
been proved correct. The enemy was discovered and overpowered and all
because one man could see things and remember them.”

The heavy breathing of deeply interested listeners greeted the end of
his story.

“That’s better’n ‘Dashing Charley or the Pawnee Scout,’” exclaimed
Sammy Addington. “How many’d they kill?”

“Being a regular scout must be great,” suggested Connie. “But I guess
they ain’t no really scouts now exceptin’ soldiers.”

“What’s the matter with this idea?” broke in Mr. Trevor earnestly. “And
that’s why I asked you here. Why don’t you boys become Boy Scouts?”

Wider opened eyes and then a babble of voices indicated that the
question had made a deep impression.

“You bet!” were the first intelligible words, and these were from Art.

“What’d you have to do?” added Connie. “Can anyone be a Boy Scout?”

“Do they have regular guns?” chimed in Sammy.

“Any boy between the ages of twelve and eighteen,” Mr. Trevor
explained. “And all you have to do is to organize yourselves, select a
leader and learn and obey the Scout laws. But,” he went on, turning to
Sammy, “they don’t have guns. However, they do have a very useful scout
staff――good, stout long sticks that come in handy for a lot of things
and that are especially good on long hikes. There’s a fine uniform,
too, that every boy loves. First there’s the Baden-Powell hat.”

Mr. Trevor reached behind him and picked up a sample hat that he had
brought from England. It resembled a western cowboy’s headgear except
that the brim was straight and stiff. Above the brim was a smart
leather band and a buckle. The top was picturesquely pinched into a
four-sided peak, while beneath the brim and hanging down behind was a
light leather cord.

“What’s the little cord for?” came from several, while each boy sprang
from his chair to get a better view.

“These hats were devised by General Baden-Powell for the English
cavalry in tropic Africa,” explained Mr. Trevor. “The cord is to fasten
beneath your hair on the nape of the neck. It holds the hat securely
against the wind and in the wildest charge.”

“Cowboys have those strings to hold the hat,” exclaimed Connie.

“Very true,” answered Mr. Trevor. “That’s another thing General
Baden-Powell saw on one of his trips to America. And he also saw that
cowboy hats have loose, floppy brims. He made his hat with a stiff brim
to keep the brim out of the eyes.”

“Our soldiers wore them in the Spanish-American War,” persisted Connie.

“Sure,” said Mr. Trevor smiling, “after General Baden-Powell showed
them how good the hats were.”

By this time the hat was on Wart Ware’s head and every guest was
clamoring to have a try on himself.

“In addition,” continued the host, “each Boy Scout has a knapsack to
carry his mess kit; a khaki shirt with a fine sailor necktie and a
belt. In England they wear ‘knickers’ and Scotch plaid stockings. And I
tell you they look mighty fine when they march out with their patrol
pennants on their staffs and the patrol flag in front.”

“But who tells you if you can be a Boy Scout and who bosses ’em?” asked
one boy.

“You boss yourselves. You elect your own leader. Your company is called
a _patrol_ and the leader, whoever is selected, is called the _patrol
leader_. When there are enough patrols in one locality they all select
a _scout master_ for the _troop_, for that’s what several patrols and
their officer are called. And each patrol does as it pleases, goes into
the country in pleasant weather, has camps in the summer and a club
room to meet in in the winter.”

Another wave of enthusiasm was chilled by Phil Abercrombie.

“What’s all them hats and knapsacks and things cost?” he asked
cautiously.

“I wouldn’t bother about that,” replied Mr. Trevor, “for you can get
those things when you are ready. But they cost less than three dollars
an outfit if all the patrol members buy them.”

“I’d want a hat anyway,” urged Wart Ware. “I think it’s swell.”

“Let’s stop a few minutes,” broke in Mr. Trevor, “while I tell you
more closely what this all means.”

The boys went back to their seats, for the ice cream had just been
served, while Mr. Trevor explained further:

“A patrol is made up of nine boys with a patrol leader, ten in all.
But you may add to that as many as you like until you have enough to
make two patrols. The boys select a patrol leader by vote. After this,
each boy fills out a blank which he sends to the nearest Boy Scout
headquarters. Then the headquarters secretary will tell you where you
can buy your uniforms, and he will send you badges and the ‘Manual of
Scout Laws.’

“Ten boys make a patrol; ten patrols form a troop. The leader of a
patrol is a patrol leader. The leader of a troop is a scout master.
In fair weather a patrol holds its drills and parades and executes
its scouting maneuvers in the open air. In the winter a meeting place
indoors is secured where instructions are given on specified evenings.
No boy candidate can begin his work until he has taken the ‘Scout’s
Oath.’”

“What’s that?” asked Connie so quickly that he dropped a spoonful of
ice cream on his lap. “Go on,” he laughed as Mr. Trevor paused, “I’m
gettin’ excited, that’s all.”

“He must swear:” explained his host, “First, to do his duty to God and
his country; second, to help other people at all times; and third, to
obey the Scout Law.”

“Tell us that,” cried Sandy Sheldon who had been so interested that he
had held a spoonful of ice cream in the air until it was nearly melted.
“That’s what I want to know.”

“I’d like to,” answered Mr. Trevor, who was all aglow over his
experiment, “but I can’t. It’s too long. Each boy will have to read
it for himself. But I have a few notes on it. It consists of nine
articles,” he added taking out his memorandum book, “and it was written
by General Baden-Powell himself. These are the subjects:

“‘Article I. A Scout’s honor is to be trusted. If he does not carry out
the leader’s orders exactly his badge will be taken from him.

“‘Article II. A Scout is loyal to his government, to his officers and
to his parents and his employers.

“‘Article III. A Scout’s duty is to be useful and to help others.

“‘Article IV. A Scout is a friend to all and a brother to every other
Scout.

“‘Article V. A Scout is courteous. That is, he is polite to all, but
especially to women and children, old people and cripples. He must take
no reward for being courteous.

“‘Article VI. A Scout is a friend to animals.

“‘Article VII. A Scout obeys the orders of his parents, Patrol Leader
or Scout Master without question; even if he gets an order he does not
like he must do as sailors and soldiers do.

“‘Article VIII. A Scout smiles and whistles under all circumstances.

“‘Article IX. A Scout is thrifty――that is, he saves every penny he can
and puts it in the bank.’

“Now, young gentlemen,” went on Mr. Trevor as he concluded the list of
articles of the Scout Law, “you ought to have a fair idea of what it
means to be a Boy Scout. I think it a grand idea. I invited you here to
explain it as well as I could. I want Art to be a Boy Scout. Would you
like to do it?” he asked, turning toward his son.

“You bet――I mean, I certainly would,” answered Art promptly.

“How many other boys would like to join a patrol?”

So unanimous was the response that it seemed ridiculous to ask for
negatives.

“I congratulate you all, boys,” exclaimed Mr. Trevor proudly. “And this
being Sunday, I want each boy to go home and talk it over with his
parents, and those who get permission or don’t change their minds are
asked to come here at eight o’clock to-morrow evening to arrange and
select a patrol leader. And I want to add that it will give me great
pleasure, if you will permit it, to present each member with a complete
uniform.”

CHAPTER VII

ARTHUR’S DEAL WITH A CIRCUS HAND

In spite of the enthusiasm all the boys felt for the proposed Boy Scout
organization, the thoughts of the next day were clouded with the fear
of what Marshal Walter might do. He had threatened to arrest each boy
whose name he knew. And he knew all the “Aviators.”

When all arrangements had been made for the Boy Scout meeting Monday
evening and the tea party was at an end, the young guests lingered.
There was a quick conference among the older boys, and then Alex
Conyers approached Mr. Trevor.

“I suppose, Mr. Trevor, you know all about our trouble yesterday――” he
began.

“I’m sorry I had to hear so much,” was their host’s reply.

“Marshal Walter left word at our house that he might arrest all of us.”

“So I hear.”

“Do you think he will?”

“I’ve known persons to be arrested for less.”

“Do you think we ought to be taken up?”

“If it would teach you a lesson――”

“But we’ve all reformed,” protested Alex with an attempt at a smile.

“We’re goin’ to be Boy Scouts. If the mayor knew that don’t you think
he’d let us off?”

“He might. It is in his power.”

“Won’t you tell him?”

“I’ll be glad to. I’ll see what can be done,” answered Mr. Trevor.

The next morning the scared boys drifted aimlessly from house to house.
Not even the shop in the garage interested them. Finally they could
stand the suspense no longer and about noontime Art called his father
by telephone.

“The mayor is going to give all of you another chance,” answered Mr.
Trevor. “But he says if there is any more trouble of that kind you’ll
have to answer for both offenses.”

If the boys had been present when Mr. Trevor and Mr. Conyers called on
the mayor they would have seen a far from formal interview. As a matter
of fact they talked most of the time about a fishing trip. And the end
of the interview would have further astounded them. “Oh, by the way,
Mr. Trevor,” exclaimed the mayor, “here’s a purse Marshal Walter took
from one of the boys. It has some money in it.”

Mr. Trevor did not turn the funds over to the boys at once or even
mention it. At dinner that evening Art asked his father:

“We’re all stuck on this Boy Scout business and we got some books about
it to-day. But do you want us to break up the Young Aviators Club?”

“By no means,” replied Mr. Trevor. “But you won’t care for it after a
bit: you’ll have so many other things to do.”

“I reckon you didn’t care much for our club.”

“Not a great deal,” answered Mr. Trevor with a smile. “It’s like a lot
of other boy organizations. Unless there is a specific plan for doing
good in them, like the Boy Scouts, they frequently work the other way.
There may be a leader but there is rarely any law. And the leader is
as apt to guide the members wrong as right.” Art fixed his eyes on
his plate. “The plans for all boy clubs should be laid down by older
people. That’s where parents often fail in their duty. Statistics show
that uneducated, idle boys nearly always drift into evil ways and even
into crime when they begin to ‘gang’ together.”

“Then,” exclaimed Art, “I’d be a bad selection for patrol leader of our
Boy Scouts!”

Mr. Trevor hesitated. He did not like to hurt Art’s feelings. At last
he said, “Let’s put it another way. What boy would you select for
leader?”

“Oh, Connie, of course,” answered Art. “If he’d been leader last
Saturday there wouldn’t have been any trouble.”

“Then you ought to vote for him.”

Somewhat chagrined to think that he was not the best choice for patrol
leader, Art made a resolution: he’d be leader some day. At the meeting
that night he was pleased that he was the first boy named for the head
of the new patrol but he declined and nominated Connie and told why he
did.

Connie had no opportunity to refuse. His election went through with a
hurrah. Before the meeting adjourned every boy, under Connie’s blushing
direction, had filled out his application blank. The midnight train
carried these and a request for a charter for the Wolf Patrol of
Scottsville, Alexander Conyers, Patrol Leader, with a membership of
thirteen boys.

So much store was set on the uniforms, especially the hats and khaki
shirts――brown was the color selected――that the boys all went to
Mr. Trevor’s office the next morning to be measured and this order
followed the other papers at once. With no manual of drill or rules to
guide them, there was now little to do but discuss the future and the
alluring possibilities of scouting, maneuvers and camping in the open.

After a day or two of this Art came back to his big dream, the
possibility that they might some day own an airship. He even romanced
over what he described as the “Aviation Squad” of the Wolf Patrol.
When he had company he would discuss details of aeroplane building and
while alone he was often making sketches and figures. In this he could
not hold his chums’ complete attention, for the Boy Scout idea was too
strong this week to admit another interest.

An event was impending in Scottsville that made the juvenile
citizens irresponsible. On Saturday the “Great Western Triple
Circus, Menagerie and Congress of World’s Wonders” was to give two
performances. Even the new Boy Scout frenzy lessened as Saturday
approached. And there was little wonder, for among the alluring
“wonders” promised was this feature: “Master Willie Bonner, positively
the youngest aviator in the world, will make two death-defying,
cloud-piercing aeroplane flights each day. At one o’clock and six
o’clock he will give free exhibitions, ascending heavenward until lost
to the eye and then returning earthward in a series of spirals and
glides never before attempted by man.”

When a circus comes to town (that is, to a town that has no pretensions
to being a city) every boy under sixteen becomes indifferent to the
ordinary duties of life.

Prearrangement was hardly necessary, but it was well understood Friday
night among Art’s friends that all would be on hand in the morning
“to see ’em put up the tents.” When Art awoke it was not dawn. As he
lingered, half dozing, a sudden sound fell upon his ear.

Through the silent night came a noise that no town boy ever fails to
recognize――the low, heavy, guttural rumble of a circus van. It is like
the sound of no other vehicle in the world. City boys do not know it.
To the town boy it is like a galvanic shock. His pulses throb with a
wild eager anticipation, while his heart sinks for fear that he will
be too late――that is, that he will miss seeing something that some
earlier-arrived boy has glimpsed in the dark.

Art threw on his clothes and stole out of the house. It was a half mile
to the “commons” where the tents were to be set. He started on a dead
run, buttoning his clothes as he went. There were no tents erected as
yet, but the deep-voiced, gray-shirted boss was busy with his long
steel tape. And where he sank his foot in the dewy grass, dejected,
unshaven men were throwing down the worn pale-blue stakes. Then work
began. Stake drivers, four on a team, with heavy sledges revolving one
after the other like the spokes of a wheel, drove the heavy piles in
jumps into the ground.

Canvas wagons had been backed up in various places and their teams of
four and six horses, heavy harnessed and resplendent in bits of red
leather and polished metal, were off across the town, heavy of hoof
and jangling their traces, to bring other wagons from the train. At
last as day broke, animal cages, the “lions’ den” and the “ticket
wagon” appeared――the latter a blaze of golden figures and bearing the
ornate portraits of the wonderful men who had conceived and owned the
“Congress of Wonders.”

It is the signal for the climax: the arrival of the sacred cow, the
camels, the ponies, the pony chariots safely concealed with cloths, as
if the sight of the fairyland beauties of these were to be withheld
for a time at least from profaning eyes. The temptation to touch the
pony chariots and run alongside the waddling little animals lasts but a
moment. The elephants are coming! There is not a _herd_ as the pictures
promised, but only _two_. Every boy forgets tents and animal dens. It
is no time now for comment. The big, silently-gliding animals, lunging
forward and recovering, their bony heads swaying right and left, keep
time with the swinging steps that seem always about to break into a
run but never do. And then, by the side of the foremost, the “elephant
keeper.”

Can he and the tinseled man who will later sit calmly in the open “den”
of lions with naught between him and death but a little whip, be of
common clay? But, just now, the lion tamer is forgotten. All eyes are
on the “elephant keeper.”

At a respectful distance the boys of the town trot forward with the
fast-paced monsters. A sinuous trunk leaps in the air. The foremost
elephant emits a piercing cry, sharp and shrill like the car wheels of
the heavy evening express when the air brakes lock them fast with a
shower of sparks. The elephant keeper has sunk his prod into the big
animal. Why? No boy ever knew.

“It’s to show ’em he ain’t afraid,” suggested one lad under his breath
as he clasps a companion’s hand.

“Mebbe the elfunt was goin’ to do somepin’,” says another. “You got to
watch ’em awful close.”

Then it is day. The big, muddy, patched tents are up. To the last
minute the boys crowd forward to see the “old elfunt” push the animal
cages into the menagerie tent, its head lowered and its long trunk
trailing on the already wagon-rutted grounds. And then, sorrowing for
each lost moment, they rush home for breakfast and explanations.

But on this particular day, Art Trevor did not rush home. He had caught
sight of what was to him a greater wonder even than the elephants,
and more fascinating than the shrouded pony chariots――a long, light
car freighted with an aeroplane in two sections. It looked very shabby
and very frail. Among those round about he searched for a boy: “Master
Willie Bonner.” But he saw no boy. Then he stole closer to touch the
magical craft――the first he had ever seen.

It was a twenty-six foot machine, with two propellers in the style
of the Wright biplane. These and the tail frame and rudders had been
removed for convenience in transportation. An oil-saturated cloth
covered the engine. While Art gingerly approached the wagon on which
the flying machine was loaded, together with a tool box, some cans of
gasoline and oil and a number of extra bits of wooden truss uprights, a
rough voice exclaimed:

“Want to get a front seat to see the flyin’ machine go up, kid?”

The speaker was a bleary-eyed, unshaven and partly dressed canvasman.

“Can I?” asked Art eagerly.

“You kin fur a dollar.”

“Where do I pay the money?” asked the boy with a new glance of
admiration at the airship of which he had long dreamed.

“The best way to be sure o’ gettin’ a seat next to where she starts,”
explained the man, “is to pay it to me. I’m the gen’ral sup’intendent
o’ aviation.”

“I only got eighty cents,” confessed Art regretfully. Fifty cents of
this was to get into the circus, ten cents was for the sideshow, ten
cents for lemonade and peanuts, and ten cents for the concert, all
carefully saved for some days.

“Well, they’s only a few good front seats, and fur adults the price
is two dollars,” explained the man. “But fur boys ’at understands
aeroplanes, fur educatin’ purposes we make a reduction to one dollar.”

“Will it be too late to get a seat in half an hour?” asked Art
anxiously. “I got to go home and get twenty cents more.”

“You give me the eighty cents an’ I’ll trust you for the rest,”
conceded the canvasman. “You look honest.”

Art handed him his money.

“Where’s my ticket?” asked the boy anxiously.

“This is a special favor, sonny. They ain’t no reg’lar tickets. You
just come right up where this wagon is an’ you’ll see me. It’ll be all
right.”

When Art reached home his mother began a rebuke, but Mr. Trevor only
laughed. Once, his father said with a chuckle, when circuses traveled
in wagons, he had waited all night at the river bridge to see if the
elephants wouldn’t break through.

Full of joy over the deal he had so fortunately made, Art hastened to
relate his early morning adventure. When he had concluded his story his
mother said:

“I’m not sure I like that. I’d rather you wouldn’t be so close.”

“Don’t fear,” shouted Mr. Trevor, shaking with laughter. “Arthur,
you’ve been swindled. There aren’t any seats for the aeroplane show.
And you’ll never see your ‘superintendent of aviation.’ You’ve lost
your money.” As the boy’s face indicated a panic of alarm his father
added, laughing anew: “Here’s a dollar, Arthur. Try to keep it until it
is time for the performance and don’t,” as he roared again, “carry any
water for the elephants.”

Palpitating, excited boys were awaiting Art after breakfast. His
misfortune had at least one good feature; not one of the boys knew
about it. Nor did he see fit to tell them about it. The boys had an
important question to debate and settle. What performance should they
attend, afternoon or evening?

“If we go in the afternoon, we can’t go to-night,” argued Wart Ware.
“And I tell you it’s purty tough to stand ’round and hear the band
playin’ an’ not be able to see nothin’. Besides, ever’thing looks finer
at night. The lights is a-blazin’ an’ the spangles is like diamonds.”

“Shucks,” argued Art. “They don’t do half the things at night they do
in the daytime. They’re always a-hurr’in’ to get through. An’ how about
the animals? Answer that. The menagerie is all gone an’ loaded on the
cars. You can’t get another look at the cages at all.”

So the argument continued. One was afraid that if they attended the
afternoon performance they wouldn’t have time to see the flying machine
show. Another urged that they never attempted the most dangerous
mid-air feats at night because it was too risky. And there wasn’t a boy
who could attend both exhibitions.

Finally a vote was taken and the decision was for the afternoon show,
the real reason being that no boy was willing to wait longer. “We
can stand around and see ’em ‘strike’ the menagerie tent at night,”
suggested Colly Craighead, “an’ mebbe go to the side show again.”

This suggestion meeting approval, the boys started on a run to
reach the grounds, so that they might not miss the preparations for
the “Grand Daily Parade, Rain or Shine.” The Boy Scout fever was
temporarily at a low ebb.

CHAPTER VIII

AN AFTERNOON AT THE CIRCUS

Long before one o’clock every Elm Street boy was at the circus grounds
with a definite program: First, to see the “cloud-piercing” aeroplane
flight by “Master Willie Bonner”; then to visit the gloriously pictured
side show; and, finally, to attend the circus performance. The flying
machine was apparently in order, and just after one o’clock it was
wheeled to a far corner of the grounds. “Master Willie” did not seem
very much of a child. He was picked out by the fact that he wore a
cheap leather coat, an aviator’s helmet, turned down Scotch stockings
and long gloves, much soiled. He looked to be about Arthur Trevor’s age.

“You can bet he’s got nerve,” remarked Lew Ashwood admiringly.

“An’ you bet he gets a big salary,” commented Duke Easton.

“I’ll bet he gets ten dollars a day,” ventured Sandy Sheldon. “An’ he
don’t have to work hardly at all.”

“An’, like as not, gets in the circus free when he wants to,” added
Colly Craighead. “I’d like a job like that.”

Art had plenty of time to see that there were no seats anywhere.
The “superintendent of aviation” was not even present, being, as a
matter of fact, fast asleep at that moment beneath a big canvas wagon.
Blushing again over the knowledge of how easy he had been, Art led the
way to the best place to see, and the boys prepared to drink in every
detail. Master Willie Bonner seemed to be the real superintendent.

“They ain’t no golden, silken wings there to flash in the sun. It’s all
dirty and greasy,” commented Art. “An’ the engine don’t look any too
good neither.”

“The kid looks all right, though,” put in Connie. “He’s the only decent
looking fellow I’ve seen in the whole outfit.”

The engine had been started and the propellers tested. The boys were so
close that the wind from these beat on their faces, whirling dead grass
and dust about them in a choking cloud.

“Chase yourselves, you kids,” called the young aviator in a not
unpleasant voice.

“You bet he knows how to run things,” exclaimed Sammy Addington, who
was once more in the gang’s fold.

While thousands of spectators shouted and shoved and the Elm Street
boys fought to stick together and keep in front, the man who had ridden
at the front of the morning parade and who continually warned all to
look out for their horses, as the elephants were coming, sprang onto
the aeroplane wagon and swept his big black hat from his head.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he exclaimed in a deep, far-reaching voice, “I
desire to introduce to you the youngest and most skilled aviator in the
world, Master Willie Bonner.” At these words young Bonner leaped on the
hub of a wagon wheel and doffed his cap without a smile or the least
concern for the mob of spectators. “I desire to add,” went on the deep
voice, “that, as a special mark of respect for your beautiful little
city, Master Bonner has decided to alter his program somewhat, to-day.
Theahfore, instead of making a long flight at this time he desiahs me
to announce that he will now simply give you an exhibition in the lowah
atmospheres.” As murmurs of disapproval and disgust were heard, the
man hastened to add: “He is doing this, because, sharp at five o’clock
this afternoon, he has determined to make an attempt to lowah the
world’s record for altitude flight.” Cheers sounded, which the speaker
stilled with uplifted hand. “Master Bonner’s aeroplane carries enough
gasoline for a two hours’ flight. With his tanks charged to their
full capacity this world-famous young aviator will at five o’clock
head his aeroplane cloudward. He will soar heavenward until his fuel
is exhausted; then he will shut down his engine and execute a daring
volplane to the earth. Remembah, at five o’clock! Master Bonner will
now give you an exhibition of rising, banking, fast flying, spirals and
lighting; being careful to keep at all times within full view so that
all may have an opportunity to observe these death-defying feats. Watch
him closely!”

Alex Conyers snorted openly and disgustedly.

“They’re stringin’ us, kids,” he whispered hoarsely. “They ain’t
a-goin’ to be anything more doin’ at five o’clock than they is now.
These circuses don’t do half the bills say.”

“They’re a pack o’ swindlers and robbers,” added Art with peculiar
emphasis. “I’ll bet that old aeroplane can’t fly at all.”

But, in this, he was wrong. Alex was right about the five o’clock
promise, however. At that hour Master Bonner did not fly at all nor
for many days to come. The reason grew out of the biggest sensation
Scottsville ever had and, incidently, what came from this sensation had
a lot to do with the summer plans of the newly organized Boy Scouts.
This will be narrated in order, however.

About twenty minutes after one o’clock Master Willie suddenly climbed
aboard his small and soiled aeroplane. He seemed to take time only to
adjust his cap and tighten his gloves when the engine started, the roar
of the propellers broke out and the skeleton craft began wobbling along
the ground. Then accompanied by gulps in the throats of thousands, it
jumped up and stayed in the air. For the first time a real aeroplane
had flown in Scottsville.

Out toward the town limits the young aviator drove his car with half
of the spectators in wild pursuit. Then he turned, rose to the height
of perhaps five hundred feet, and heading again toward the circus
lot, landed in less than ten minutes from the time he started. The
“spirals” and “banking” were over and thirteen half disappointed,
half delighted boys hurried away to visit the side show――the “World’s
Congress of Wonders.”

The sensation that interfered with everything occurred just as the
circus performance came to an end, a little after four o’clock. The Elm
Streeters had all provided themselves with tickets for the concert.
They bought these at the first opportunity and, about halfway through
the performance, when the deep-voiced announcer made another speech,
they could only grip their precious tickets with new delight.

Jumping upon one of the stools used by pink-legged performers to hold
up the banners when the bareback riding was in progress, the man
exclaimed:

“Ladies and gentlemen, in making my announcement a few moments ago
concerning the grand concert and minstrel show that takes place
immediately upon the conclusion of this performance, which is not yet
half ovah, I neglected to state that each and every curiosity of the
side museum will also be introduced into the arena. Agents will now
pass among you once more. The price of admission is ten cents, one
dime.”

The concert was not held. While those who had neglected to purchase
tickets were crowding through the sawdust strewn passageway between the
“big top” or circus and the long odorous menagerie tent, there was a
sudden commotion. The crowd jammed forward and back at the same time.
For a moment no sound indicated the cause of the excitement and then a
roar of “Look out! Look out!” swept through the tents. At the same time
a white-faced canvasman with a pitchfork in his hand sprang under the
side of the circus tent and yelled to the “concert people”:

“Come on! Old Growls is out again! Come on――git a fork or suthin’!”

“Keep your seats,” yelled the loud-voiced announcer, “the tiger’s
escaped but you’re safest in here. Keep your seats!”

In another instant he was deep in the panic-stricken mob, yelling for
the people to “come back” and “nobody’s goin’ to be hurt; come this
way.”

The terrified Elm Streeters held onto each other for a few moments,
rising to their feet. Then as the white-faced mob began to swell
toward them Connie shouted:

“Come on. We can get out through the dressing room.”

Others had started that way, but led by Connie and Art the boys
plowed their way across the sawdust-covered ring to the dressing room
entrance. Then, through the open horse entrance, they rushed out
among wagons and horse tents. A cry of warning greeted them. One look
along the side of the big tents showed a dozen men armed with stakes,
pitchforks and sledges.

“Get back there, you kids. The tiger’s here!”

Before the trembling lads could retreat, a long form shot from beneath
a low wagon, bounded forward and then paused. It was a gaunt and mangy
tiger, its lips drawn back in a snarl and its almost hairless tail
beating the ground.

“Run! Run!” yelled some one.

There had been no time to move. But the cry of warning aroused the
tiger. A suppressed snarl broke from the beast and its dimly striped,
sinuous length lunged forward again. But it was not toward the boys.
With three bounds, arising each time like a rubber ball, the beast
disappeared within a horse tent. The fear-stricken lads waited no
longer. As if aroused from a spell they turned and fled around the
dressing tent.

The boys heard the neighing cries of the haltered horses and at last,
their tongues loosened, they told of what they had seen and escaped.
Then came new crashes beyond the tents, the shouts of attendants, one
piercing snarl of the tiger, and then the cries of those in chase grew
fainter. The animal aroused by the taste of blood, for it had crushed
the neck of a horse, was in renewed flight. Between wagons it had slunk
away and had headed toward the edge of town. A thousand persons, young
and old, were in a panic flight in the other direction, toward the
residence part of town.

It seemed but a few minutes until the warning had spread throughout
Scottsville. Children were hastily summoned and taken within doors;
stores were closed; armed men appeared; women stood, door knobs in
hand, pale-faced and trembling; parents whose children had attended
the performance rushed about excitedly calling to all concerning their
offsprings’ whereabouts. Mr. Trevor was not missing among these. Many
Elm Street mothers paced their lawns as if awaiting some messenger of
death. And the Elm Street boys themselves? Their first panic over, they
naturally set out in the direction the beast had taken.

“He’s over in Jackson’s Woods,” came a message from somewhere.
Jackson’s Woods marked the end of the town, a half-cleared bit of
forest. Cautiously and following other pursuers the boys hurried in
that direction. When they came to its edge, fifty or more men were seen
in a crowd. Well beyond them, on the edge of the old “frog pond” and
low on the ground, Old Growls was lapping water in apparent content.

While the pursuers took council, the beast arose, looked lazily at the
crowd and then walked slowly toward a clump of half-dead trees. Here,
the pursuers again advancing slowly, the tiger paused, hunched himself
and then, as lightly as a kitten, sprang into the lower limbs of a
tree, broken off about halfway up.

One or two men rushed ahead but the tiger gave them no heed. Slowly it
made its way up the tree trunk until it reached an open place above
the last dead branches. Then curling its body about the trunk and on
the limbs the animal seemed to settle itself in the warm sun for its
first taste of freedom.

The first man that the boys recognized was Marshal Walter, who had just
arrived in a buggy, a rifle clenched in his trembling hands.

“Where is he?” panted the veteran official.

“In the top o’ that tree,” yelled a dozen spectators. “An’ he’d ought
to be shot,” added one.

“I’ll soon put him out o’ business,” announced the marshal. “Stan’ back
there, you ’at ain’t armed.”

“What d’you mean?” cried the deep-voiced “announcer,” who now turned
out to be one of the owners of the Great Western Show. “Don’t you put
no bullet in that animal. He’s worth two thousand dollars of any man’s
money. Don’t you do him no damage or you’ll pay for it. He ain’t done
no harm and ain’t a-goin’ to. We’ll take care o’ him. He’s been loose
before. Drop that gun,” he concluded in a tone that alarmed the marshal.

“I’m here to protect life and property,” began the marshal.

“They ain’t a-goin’ to be nobody hurt,” expostulated the circus owner.
“I’ll take care of that.”

By the circus man’s side stood a young man who had been studying the
treed tiger. At this moment the boy spoke to the circus proprietor, who
gave immediate signs of surprise. Then the boy seemed urging something,
and while the man stood as if perplexed, the lad turned and hurried
away on a run.

“It’s Master Willie Bonner, the Aviator,” exclaimed Art.

“I reckon he’s goin’ back to the show to give his cloud-piercin’
exhibition,” suggested Wart Ware. “It’s nearly five o’clock.”

“Not much,” exclaimed Alex Conyers. “The show people ain’t a-goin’ to
bother about free shows while their two thousand dollar tiger’s loose.”

Marshal Walter was still arguing with the showman but the latter seemed
to be having his way with the official, for the marshal made no effort
to shoot the animal. The crowd grew larger. Everyone wanted to know why
the tiger was in the tree? Why he was not somewhere else? Had he killed
any one? Why didn’t some one do something!

The Elm Streeters kept together and as far from Marshal Walter as
was consistent with keeping in the crowd. At this point Mr. Trevor’s
automobile appeared on the edge of the crowd. It was recognized by the
boys and all knew what it meant. Much excited, Mr. Trevor sprang out of
the machine and Art hastened forward.

“You should have gone home at once, Arthur. Where’s the tiger?”

When he had been shown the beast he rounded up the children of his
neighbors and crowded them into the automobile. “We’ll wait a few
minutes, boys,” he explained, “to see what happens. I guess we can get
away all right if his Royal Bengal Highness takes a notion to come
down.”

There was continued debate between the circus proprietor and the
excited marshal, during which the still increasing number of spectators
edged nearer the tree and the tiger. Finally it moved, got upon its
feet and raised the upper part of its body along the tree trunk as if
to examine the broken tree top.

“It’ll come down or do something now,” suggested Art.

“I’d think they’d shoot,” added Connie.

A man in the crowd suddenly raised his arm and pointed toward that
part of town where the circus stood.

“It’s the aeroplane,” shouted Colly excitedly.

“It’s comin’ in this direction,” yelled Art. “Gee whiz, watch him.”

“I’ll bet it’s that boy a-goin’ to do something to the tiger,” cried
Connie jumping on the rear seat and waving his hat. “Mebbe he ain’t
flyin’ though!”

As each boy struggled to get in a better position to see, Sammy
Addington almost crushed in the jam of thirteen boys, and howling and
kicking, the circus aeroplane darted over the automobile.

“I told you so! I told you so!” roared Connie. “Look at his rope!”

All could make that out. In his left hand the youthful aviator held
several long loops of light rope. Was he going to lasso the beast? How
could he do it with his left hand? And if he did, how could he hold the
line and manage the aeroplane? It was not necessary to theorize long.
What followed showed that “Master Willie Bonner’s” noonday flight was
little indication of what the nervy little aviator could do with his
aeroplane.

Sailing low, he passed almost directly over the tree. As he did so, the
long line dropped in a dozen loops onto the dead branches. While they
were yet in the air the flying machine made a quick and sharp bank to
the left. The end of the line was in young Bonner’s hand. The aeroplane
dipped downward and then, with an instant’s check, began immediately
to bank on an upward dart, the rope paying out behind and circling the
tree.

A yell arose from the crowd and in the automobile every boy had a
different exclamation.

“He’s windin’ the tiger up,” shouted Ware. And that really expressed
it. The loose end of the line lay on a limb some yards below the
animal. It did not catch and, apparently, there was no need why it
should. The first circling dart of the aeroplane looped the line about
the limbs and trunk of the tree. Like a bicycle on a quick turn, the
flying machine, still at an angle of at least forty-five degrees, made
a second circuit――this time higher. The swaying rope followed.

As the loose line passed the apparently indifferent animal, the beast
suddenly struck at it with a paw. The rope slipped under the tiger’s
leg and before the now aroused beast could escape it another circle
of the airship had placed a coil about the tiger. The gaunt animal now
began to attack the line in earnest but with each spiral bank of the
aeroplane his entanglement grew worse.

At last, every one cheering and calling out directions, there was not
over fifty feet of line left. A dozen turns of rope had entangled
themselves about the tree and the wildly resisting beast, when speaking
for the first time, the aviator yelled:

“Here she comes. Take up the slack and you’ve got him.”

With this Bonner dropped the end of the line. Dozens of nervy
spectators grabbed it and, with a quick pull, drew it taut about the
snarling tiger.

“Get an ax,” yelled the circus man.

“Look! The aeroplane!” screamed a boy in the automobile.

There was only time to see that the flying machine was in trouble. In
righting itself, it had already banked itself sharply to the right.
There were two quick darts and then the planes seemed to buckle. Like
a broken kite, the machine dropped straight to the ground in a tangled
wreck, the aviator underneath.

CHAPTER IX

THE CIRCUS LOSES ITS AVIATOR

By this time scores of circus employees had reached the edge of
the woods. The principal owner had also arrived. He seemed to take
charge of everything. With orders to those holding the rope binding
the helpless tiger he hurried to the wrecked aeroplane. While Mr.
Trevor and the boys followed on a run, a dozen men lifted the twisted
sections. Face down, with the lower plane section on his back and his
face buried in the marshy ground, lay the unconscious young aviator.

While some lifted the wrecked machine, others drew the boy from the
wreckage and laid him on the grass. Then the crowd closed about. Mr.
Trevor forced his way into the curious group and assisted in the
examination. There was no blood. But apparently the lad was severely
injured.

“I have a machine here,” Mr. Trevor exclaimed to the circus owner.
“Where do you want him taken?”

“I don’t know,” answered the man. “Better take him to the train I
suppose. There’s a colored man there. I’ll send a doctor right away.”

There was no lack of volunteers to bear the limp body to Mr. Trevor’s
machine. Selecting Art and Alex, Mr. Trevor laid the pale-faced aviator
on the rear seat with the two boys to look after him.

“Want to go with us?” he called to the circus owner. “It’ll be faster.”

“I’ve got a horse here,” was the answer. “I’ll be along at once. I’ve
got to look after this animal now.”

Even in his haste and concern for the injured boy, Mr. Trevor looked up
in surprise.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll look after him.”

The power was thrown on and the automobile was speeded to the center of
the town. On the first motion of it the unconscious boy began to groan.

“He’s pretty white, father,” said Art over his shoulder. “Hurry.”

The suffering boy was dressed in soiled and worn clothing but it was
now seen that he had a good face, clean-cut features, heavy brown hair
and big hands, strong beyond his years, which very apparently were not
more than seventeen.

At high speed Mr. Trevor dashed through the town to the side-tracked
circus train. Both Mr. Trevor and Alex sprang out and ran to the old
sleeping cars at the end of the train. They were all locked. There was
no one in charge. If a colored man should have been there he had left
his post.

“Don’t look any longer, father; I can’t stand his groanin’. Let’s find
a doctor.”

Mr. Trevor whirled the machine into a side street and in a few moments
stopped before a little single-room office on a back street.

“Brown,” he called anxiously, “hurry out here.”

A youngish man, Dr. Brown, appeared in his shirt sleeves.

“What’s the matter?” he exclaimed, catching sight of the boy and
springing to the lad’s side. “Seems to be in a bad way,” he added
catching young Bonner’s wrist. In some mysterious way a few people
began at once to surround the automobile.

“It’s a boy from the circus,” explained Art. “He fell in an aeroplane.
Is he much hurt?”

From the boy’s pulse the doctor’s hands had reached for the boy’s
heart and forehead. Without reply, the doctor sprang to the ground and
an instant later was back with a stimulant which he forced between
the injured boy’s teeth. Again he took hold of his wrist and for some
moments sat in silence watching the unconscious form.

Meanwhile Mr. Trevor was pleading with the growing crowd to stand back.
Apparently the effect of the doctor’s stimulant was not what he had
hoped. Rushing into the office once more he came out with his hat and
coat, his surgical case and a hypodermic syringe. He bared the lad’s
arm――there was no sign of blood――then injected some other stimulant.

“Where does he belong?” Dr. Brown asked with concern. “He must be cared
for at once. It’s only another proof of Scottsville’s disgrace――the
lack of a hospital. I can’t examine him here. Are there any
accommodations at the circus?”

Mr. Trevor had thought of that and he knew that there was neither bed
nor cot at the circus.

“I hardly know where to take him,” Mr. Trevor began. “Perhaps we had
better go to a hotel――”

“Take him home, father,” exclaimed Art. “I wish you would. There’s no
one at the hotel. Mebbe he’s goin’ to die.”

Without reply Mr. Trevor turned to the wheel again and, the doctor
crouching at the young aviator’s side with the boy’s hand in his, it
was only a few turns and Elm Street was reached.

Mrs. Trevor’s alarm at the sight of the prostrate form, was because
she was sure it was Arthur. But a word of explanation turned her into
an efficient emergency nurse. A few minutes later the still-groaning
victim was lying in the snowy sheets of one of Mrs. Trevor’s guest beds.

Art and Alex crowded the doorway until there came a sudden order from
Dr. Brown that Dr. Wells be called, and the two boys dashed away in the
automobile on this errand. When the other physician had been found and
carried to the Trevor home there was some news of the lad’s condition.

“There’s a bad wound in his back,” explained Mr. Trevor coming from the
sick room, “and he’s lost a good deal of blood. His underclothes were
saturated. His spine may be injured. There’s something the matter with
his legs, too.”

Art and Alex could only retire to the porch and await developments.
It was the first time either had come into such close contact with a
serious accident and both were excited. In half an hour Mr. Trevor
appeared; very grave in looks.

“Drive me to the circus, Arthur. You may come too, Alex,” he added.

It was discovered that the rear seat was damp with blood. The cushions
were turned over and the trip to the grounds hastily made.

The traveling owners of the show were yet at the scene of the accident
engaged in the task of caging the trapped tiger. Mr. Trevor ordered the
machine driven to that place. The smashed aeroplane was lying where it
fell. The principal owner was superintending the recovery of the tiger.
His horse and light wagon stood near. There was every sign that he had
forgotten even to summon a doctor to attend his injured employee.

Circus hands had brought up an empty animal cage and an animal transfer
box used in shipping savage beasts. Some one had crawled halfway up
the tree and made fast two heavy ropes. Then the partly rotten tree
had been cut through at the base and, some holding the tree base in
place, dozens of employees had eased the severed tree trunk to the
ground. Those familiar with wild beasts had already further pinioned
the growling tiger’s legs and, with much hauling and shouting, the bony
tiger had just been drawn into the transfer crate.

“How’s the kid?” was the owner’s salutation.

“In a bad way I think. What do you want to do with him?”

“He’ll be all right in the car. I’m just goin’ to get a doctor.”

“The cars were closed. We couldn’t get into them. I’ve taken the boy to
my home to be examined.”

“Couldn’t get in the car?” was the circus man’s reply. “The nigger must
’a’ been asleep. I’ll see that it’s opened. You take him where I said.
Bad luck always comes double. We nearly lost our only tiger an’ now
this kid has to go an’ dump hisself. That’ll cut out our exhibition, to
say nothin’ ’bout a doctor bill.”

“I’m afraid he can’t be moved for several hours,” began Mr. Trevor.

“Well he’ll have to be moved before midnight,” answered the circus
man. “We can’t wait for him.”

“Hadn’t you better make some arrangement to have him cared for in this
town?” asked Mr. Trevor, his lips closing.

“I don’t see why I should,” answered the circus proprietor. “Business
is rotten enough. I’ve got to hire as cheap as I can and when work
stops, pay stops. Some one’s always sick.”

“You don’t mean to say you’re not going to care for this unfortunate
boy?” asked Mr. Trevor.

“I’ll care for him as well as I can if he comes along with the show.
You bring him to the train like I told you and I’ll do what I can.
That’s our practice in the show business. If he can’t do that he’ll
have to quit.”

“Quit!” exclaimed Mr. Trevor, his cheeks flushing. “Do you mean to say
you’ll not only abandon him but discharge him too?”

“What’s it to you?” broke in the man angrily. “Ain’t you mixin’ up a
little in our affairs? If you don’t like my way of doin’ things, go
about your own business!”

“My business,” replied Mr. Trevor calmly, “is looking after other
people’s business, sometimes. I can see that this boy has possibly
been killed in your service and while engaged in a task that no
reasonable employer would demand or permit. Should he die, I shall make
it my business to look up his parents or relatives. If he lives and is
incapacitated in any way you may expect to hear from me. It will cost
you more in damages than decent care of him will now cost you.”

The man winced and grew white with anger.

“What he done was voluntary,” he hastened to answer. “An’ as far as
damage suits goes――that’s up to you and him. But I’ll bet you this: I
didn’t start in the show business yesterday. This kid’s under contract
with me all signed and witnessed, both him and his machine. When he
pulls off his act he gets his money. When he don’t show up there ain’t
nothin’ doin’. What he done this afternoon was his own lookout. I
didn’t ask him. If you’ll figure out for me just why I should go on
a-payin’ him when his rotten old machine breaks, you’re quite some
figurer.”

Mr. Trevor was trembling with rage and contempt.

“How much a day do you pay him?” he asked at last.

“None o’ your business.”

“It will be mighty soon,” exclaimed the lawyer.

“Father,” broke in Art. “He said it was the boy’s aeroplane.”

“Correct,” snorted the circus man. “It’s his all right. I ain’t no
claim on it an’ I ain’t goin’ to touch it. When he wants it let him
send his friends for it.”

Although nearly all in the crowd were yet massed around the captured
tiger, a number of spectators had been attracted by the showman’s loud
words. Among these was Marshal Walter.

“Walter,” exclaimed Mr. Trevor with authority as he turned his back on
the showman, “that wrecked flying machine belongs to the young man who
was injured. The boy may die but we’re going to try to save him. Till
he recovers, he’ll be at my house. I want you to see that his property
is protected. To-night or in the morning I’ll send men to get it. Send
your deputy to the circus and get any other property or baggage he may
have.”

Without another look at the circus owner, Mr. Trevor summoned the two
boys and shortly before six o’clock reached his home again. Here all
were glad to learn that the suffering young aviator had aroused himself
for a few moments under stimulants and, his wounds having been dressed,
had fallen asleep. Other boys had already congregated at the house but
only Art and Connie were permitted to tip-toe into the guest chamber
for the first time. The boy on the bed looked very young. His big hands
lay limply on the smooth white sheet.

“He ain’t groanin’, anyway,” whispered Art.

“He’s resting very well now,” explained Dr. Brown. “To-morrow we’ll
know more about his injury. Mrs. Trevor,” he added, “I’ll have a nurse
here in half an hour.”

It appeared that Mr. Trevor had been deeply incensed at the
heartlessness of the circus people. He ordered the doctors to give
the boy every attention and that no expense be spared in getting a
competent nurse. He also did considerable telephoning before dinner and
later, explained that he had arranged to have the remnants of Bonner’s
machine collected and stored in McGuire’s farm and implement warehouse.
When the nurse appeared later and Mrs. Trevor was relieved from duty
she came down stairs as determined as her husband to protect the
unfortunate victim.

All day Sunday the patient lay in the big, dark room, partly under the
influence of opiates. There was no sign of suffering. That evening he
began to show signs of consciousness. The doctors, hastily summoned,
dressed his injuries anew and made a fuller examination. The verdict
was that he was recovering from the shock. That night the boy was
restless but the fact was kept from the family by the nurse. At
breakfast, however, she said she had reported conditions to the doctor,
who arrived within a few minutes. Dr. Brown had been with the sick boy
only a short time when he came down stairs and told Mr. Trevor that the
boy was fully conscious and insisted on knowing what had happened and