Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net +-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ BOY SCOUTS WITH JOFFRE _OR IN THE TRENCHES IN BELGIUM_ _By_ CAPT. V. T. SHERMAN Author of THE WAR ZONE SCOUTING THE BALKANS IN A MOTOR BOAT [Illustration] Chicago M. A. DONOHUE & CO. COPYRIGHT 1912. M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Made in U. S. A. CONTENTS A Mysterious Hot Box 7 Secret Service Duty 19 Jimmie Stops a Gang 31 Fire and Its Result 41 Jimmie Finds a Spy 54 A Murderous Act 66 Greeted With Bullets 78 Imperiled in a Trap 90 A Mysterious Warning 102 Boy Scouts for Targets 114 A Boy Scout Rescuer 126 At the War Office 138 Left to Starve 150 The Gray Eagle Damaged 162 A Battle in the Air 174 A Journey With Joffre 187 The Rat Repulsed 199 An Interrupted Race 211 Captured and Under Fire 223 Lost Above the Lines 235 Coffee With the Kaiser 247 Thrown From the Clouds 259 A Mysterious Door 271 Under the Castle 284 The Musketeer's Mistake 296 Boy Scouts in Belgium; or, Under Fire in Flanders CHAPTER I. A Mysterious Hot Box. On a warm day in October three motorcyclists were speeding over Long Island roads toward New York City. One of the group was apparently setting the pace for his fellows. He was at least a hundred yards in the lead. With mufflers deadening perfectly the clamor of their engines the riders sped across the country like fleeting ghosts with never a sound to indicate their presence. All three riders appeared to be about eighteen years old and were dressed in the well-known khaki uniform of the Boy Scouts of America. Could one have examined closely the badges upon their sleeves he would have discovered that two of the boys were members of the Black Bear Patrol of New York City. The third member of the group, a lad slightly smaller in stature than his comrades and with a very freckled face and very red hair, was a member of the Wolf Patrol of the same city. A Black Bear was on the leading machine that seemed to be making the pace. Approaching the outskirts of a village the leader's speed perceptibly slackened and his machine veered abruptly from side to side of the roadway. He seemed in imminent peril of dashing into a nearby row of telephone poles. Instantly the others slackened speed. "What's up, Harry?" inquired he of the red hair. "Crossing cop, maybe!" "Nix on the cop!" "When Jack's in trouble, slow up!" Without a moment's delay both boys shut off power and applied brakes, bringing their machines to a standstill beside their comrade. Dismounting hurriedly the riders approached their friend. "What's the trouble, Jack?" inquired the red-headed lad. Then without waiting for an answer he wrinkled his freckled nose in disgust and stepped back with loud sniffs of displeasure. "You needn't tell me; I know," he cried. "Somebody tried to take lessons in cooking and burned the water before it could boil!" Both his comrades laughed at Jimmie's remark. Jack, however, turned again to an examination of his machine with a worried look on his face. Touching the parts gingerly he went carefully over the engine. "Whew, Jack," spoke up the third boy, "you're surely some loud smeller! What did you run over and why did you do it?" "I know!" cried Jimmie excitedly. "He's got a hot box!" "Sure?" inquired Jack teasingly. "Hope I never see the back of my neck!" declared Jimmie. "Guess I know now what that freight train conductor out in Montana meant when he spoke of a 'stinker,'" Harry mused. "But how did you get it?" persisted Jimmie. "Boys, if you want to know the truth, I think some one was unkind enough to wish this onto me!" soberly declared Jack. "You don't mean it!" gasped Harry with a startled look. "I do! When did we overhaul these motorcycles?" "Yesterday. Each boy worked on his own machine, and I know I did a good job on mine. It runs like a scared rabbit!" "All did good jobs! Mine, too, was in perfect shape. But look at that main crank bearing now! It's positively frozen!" "Ho! Ho!" jeered Jimmie. "Frozen! Why, it's so hot you daren't even touch it! Just see it frying grease this minute!" "That's the correct term for a bearing that gets so hot it won't let the shaft or axle turn. Maybe you didn't know that!" "Well, Great Jumpin' Catfishes!" gasped Jimmie. "It's a good thing Ned isn't here to listen to that slang!" declared Harry. "As leader of the Wolf Patrol, Ned objects to slang!" "Well, if 'Catfishes' is any more slang than 'Frozen Hot Boxes,'" stoutly decided Jimmie, "I'll quit for keeps. Besides," he continued, "it's a good thing Ned isn't here or he'd laugh at us for a lot of amateurs who don't know how to run a motorcycle yet. I guess 'Yes'!" "Look here!" cried Jack in an excited voice. Then instantly glancing about as if afraid of being overheard he continued in a lower tone: "This looks to me like a sure case of someone's having planned that we should have trouble. Feel the grit in that oil cup!" "Let me see," urged Jimmie, stepping forward to bend over the machine for a careful exploration of the hot oil cup. Presently he straightened, and with wide open eyes glanced in wonderment toward his comrades as he extended a greasy forefinger for examination. "That's emery!" he choked. "Emery will cut any bearing!" "Emery!" echoed the two Black Bears in chorus. "Yes, sir, emery! Some one must have put it there meaning to bring disaster to us. Tell you what," Jimmie went on hurriedly in a hushed voice, "it looks as if somebody had it in for us and we are due to go through the old story of having difficulties just before we reach a stage of success! Someone's trying to delay the Grey Eagle!" "Let's not mind that just now," urged Jack, "the thing to do is to get this machine off the road and then hasten as fast as we can to the Black Bear Club Rooms to meet Ned. It's only two or three blocks to French Pierre's machine shop. One of you can tow me over there and we'll leave all three machines with him for the day at least." "Right-O!" answered Jimmie springing to his motorcycle and starting the engine. "I'll tow you as fast as you can ride!" In a few moments the three boys were again under way, but this time their progress was decidedly slower. Their course was laid toward a portion of the village devoted to factories. Here was located the machine and repair shop of a Frenchman whom the boys knew well. He had assisted them with his expert knowledge in many of their experiments, and the boys regarded him as a friend who could be safely trusted. While the boys are proceeding on their errand it may be well to make a more careful observation of them. To those of our readers who have had the pleasure of following the adventures of the lads as related in previous volumes of this series, no introduction is necessary. For the benefit of those who have not become acquainted with the work and play of our Boy Scout friends a word of explanation may not be out of place at this time. Their adventures in the States, in Alaska, in the Philippines, in China, in Mexico, were thrilling in the extreme and gave many situations of peril from which only the most energetic efforts on the part of the boys themselves brought safety. Jimmie McGraw, the lad with the red hair and freckles, had been a Bowery newsboy in New York until he had fallen under the observation of Ned Nestor, a well-known member of the Boy Scouts of America. He was of slight build, and though of about the same age as the other lads, was somewhat shorter. His active manner, quick wit and rash boldness in times of danger, coupled with a keen perception and an ability to correctly weigh values, more than made up for any apparent lack in the matter of size. Wise beyond his years, Jimmie always proved a welcome member of any party whether on business or pleasure bent. Jack Bosworth, who had just suffered the disablement of his motorcycle, was the son of a well-known New York capitalist and corporation lawyer. Like Jimmie, he was exceedingly active. A strict observance of the "setting-up" exercises, diet and health regulations such as had been insisted upon by Ned Nestor had developed in Jack, as well as the other lads, a wonderful endurance. He possessed a skill in athletics that stood him well in hand when occasion required feats of endurance or agility that might well have taxed the ability of many men older or of greater physical proportions. Jack's dark complexion contrasted strongly with Jimmie's ruddy face and wealth of auburn hair, yet the two lads were warm friends despite their difference in appearance. Harry Stevens, the son of a prominent automobile manufacturer, was the third of this trio of travelers. His marked ability along mechanical lines had been given full play by his father. Harry's ambition was to produce an engine that would be suitable for use in air craft and that would excel anything heretofore known. How well he and his comrades had succeeded we shall presently learn. Just now the three lads were hastening to New York to meet at the club rooms of the Black Bear Patrol their chum Ned Nestor, who had summoned them by telegraph from their stopping place on Long Island. For purposes of greater seclusion during their experiments a hangar had been constructed on some vacant property owned by Jack Bosworth's father. In addition to being out of the regular line of travel the place afforded the further advantage of being within easy reach of a railroad as well as being near the beach of Long Island Sound. Here Ned and his friends had worked industriously for several weeks constructing an aeroplane along lines conceived by the boys themselves. On this particular day Jimmie, Jack and Harry had been making the final adjustments on the frame and planes of the new air craft when a message had come over a "pony" wire from the nearby railroad station. Wonderingly, but unhesitatingly the boys had at once dropped their tasks and, at a suggestion from Jack, had chosen to use their motorcycles rather than wait for the next train. A watchman whose services in the past had been invaluable had been left in charge of the hangar and its precious contents. Their start had been without incident, and it was not until they approached the village a few miles from the hangar that they experienced any difficulty. Apparently the run would be a quick one. At the village, however, Jack's mount had, indeed, developed a "hot box" which effectually prevented operating the machine. In spite of Jimmie's threat to tow Jack's disabled machine at a rapid pace he was using a great deal of care and was running slowly. The boys had not proceeded far when Jack called out: "Cut across lots, Jimmie! Go through the old foundry yards. It'll save nearly two blocks of travel!" Jimmie's only reply was to nod his head. At the next street intersection he steered his motorcycle toward a foot path which led diagonally across a vacant lot formerly used by a foundry. A thick screen of shrubbery and bushes growing near the walk hid the lot from the view of anyone on the street. Not until they had passed through the opening in the bushes did the boys observe that a group of young fellows of about their own age were engaged in a game of ball on the vacant lot. These lads seemed to be rather low characters. It was too late to turn back, however, so Jimmie gave a discordant squawk of his horn and held to the path, nearly colliding with a base runner who was sliding for second. Shouts of wrath and execration rose from the throats of the roughly dressed crowd of players and spectators. In an instant fists were being shaken toward the intruders, while chunks of cinder were wrenched from the ground and hurled in the direction of the cyclists. Coarse threats and foul language were mingled freely with appellations of scorn and hatred. "Get out of here, you're buttin' into a game!" shouted one. "Soak the snobs!" cried another, brandishing the bat he held. "Get 'em, fellers!" yelled a lad, hurling a piece of cinder with poor aim. "Everybody soak 'em good and hard!" One lad more venturesome than the others hurled a bat at the machines, now almost clear of the crowd. Jimmie had opened the muffler and turned on the power. Mingled with the roar of the exhaust came a sharp musical twanging that told of broken spokes. The bat had reached Jimmie's rear wheel, but fortunately the machine did not collapse under the now uneven strain. In another minute they would be clear. "Don't let 'em get away!" yelled one of the toughs, drawing a revolver. "Don't let 'em get away! Stop the snobs!" Seeing that the machines were winning their way to safety, the excited youth pulled the trigger again and again. CHAPTER II. Secret Service Duty. "Great Smoking Fireboxes!" exclaimed Jimmie. "No, Jimmie, you should say 'Hot Boxes,'" corrected Jack. "I meant to say 'Great Frozen Hot Boxes,'" smiled Jimmie. "Here, here!" Harry cried impatiently, holding up a warning hand. "Just imagine what Ned would say if he heard that!" "All right, when I see him I shall ask his permission to use that as an intense explosive when the occasion requires." "You mean 'expletive,' Jimmie," Jack again suggested. "You win the argument!" Jimmie announced resignedly, sinking further into the depths of a great chair. "I wish Ned would hurry!" The three boys were seated in the club rooms of the Black Bear Patrol and were the only members present. Nearly the entire fourth floor of the handsome residence of Jack Bosworths's father had been given over to the use of the Black Bear Patrol. All the members had lent their best efforts to fitting the rooms up in a manner becoming the use to which they were being put. About the walls hung trophies of their prowess as hunters and fishermen. Rugs of skins were on the floors, chairs and settees fashioned by the boys themselves offered comfort, while pennants and ribbons indicating prizes awarded in athletic contests were plentifully in evidence. By great good fortune the boys had succeeded in escaping from the attention of the gang of rowdies they had unwittingly disturbed earlier in the day. Having just time to leave the damaged motorcycles with their friend Pierre they caught the next train for New York, and had proceeded at once to the club rooms, where they now rather impatiently awaited the coming of Ned Nestor. "Maybe Ned didn't think we could get here so quickly," Harry suggested, moving a camp stool nearer the window and seating himself. "Maybe he didn't think we nearly failed to get here at all!" "If it hadn't been for the good qualities of that little 'buzz-wagon' of mine we would be arguing with that gang of toughs out on Long Island this minute!" declared Jimmie with some force. "Right you are, Jimmie! You can handle a motorcycle. I'll hand you that. But they nearly got us in spite of your ability!" "They're a tough lot of lads," admitted Jack. "They work only when they have to and loaf around living on someone else. It is getting to be a caution the way they annoy us, too. There ought to be some way of stopping them. We should see father about it." "Good idea, Jack! Just now, it's too hot to think about that subject. What do you say to having a pitcher of lemonade?" "The ayes have it!" declared Jimmie in a grave manner. A step on the stair interrupted further remarks. Ned Nestor, accompanied by an older man whom the boys at once recognized as Mr. Nobles, an attorney associated with Jack's father, came into the club room, glancing quickly about with a worried look on his usually bright and sunny face. His dark eyes were positively somber. "Guilty, your Honor, as charged in the indictment," gravely remarked Jimmie in greeting as he rose to his feet and lifted his right hand. "I'm guilty. My alibi's no good!" A general laugh went round the group as this characteristic greeting was given. The boys noticed, however, that Jimmie's hand formed the well-known Boy Scout signal, and also detected the quick lift of the lawyer's hand with the palm outward, the thumb and little finger touching and the other three fingers extended upward. Instantly they all followed suit and then a general handshake followed. "And now, Ned," began Jimmie as they all took seats, "why the 'four-eleven'? Somebody trying to run away with the town?" "It looks mighty serious!" Ned soberly replied. "Great Frozen Hot Boxes!" ejaculated Jimmie. "What's that?" inquired Ned, instantly half rising. "I've got a new 'by-word,'" Jimmie hastened to explain. "I'm using it only on special occasions, such as getting shot at or some little thing like that, or having a motorcycle put out of business." "That's fine!" ironically declared Ned. "Now we'll omit the special occasions and it will be all right. Where did you get it?" "Where Jack got his real hot box!" declared Jimmie. In answer to Ned's puzzled looks the boys quickly detailed the events of the morning. Their previous experiences had taught them to overlook nothing no matter how trifling it might at first appear. A big pitcher of lemonade was prepared and passed about, to which the attorney helped the boys do full justice. "Now," began Jimmie, as the pitcher was emptied and he sat with a huge slice of lemon in each hand, "can't you do something to stop that gang of rowdies out there? They bother us a lot! Only the other day they threw several milk bottles into the road in front of our machines. The broken glass nearly cut our tires to scrap!" "Possibly I might hire a detail of guards to protect you and make the lads stop," laughingly decided the attorney, "but they'd only stop while the guards were there. If you stop them yourself, Jimmie, they'd stop while you are there! See the point?" "I'll think about that!" declared Jimmie, sinking back into the big chair and meditatively chewing on a lemon rind. "But, Ned," protested Harry impatiently, "we're anxious to hear the story of this hurry call. What's the reason for such haste?" Ned's face, which had cleared somewhat, again became grave. "I wanted you boys to help me. I need your advice." "We're the regular little advisers!" stoutly maintained Jack. "What we don't know we can find out from Jimmie and his dream book!" "You're wonderfully kind. This case needs more than a dream book, I'm afraid. It looks to me like international complications, with some treason and a few other things on the side!" "Whew, what big words!" gasped Jack. "Why don't you give the case right over to the Secret Service Department and be done with it?" "Because it isn't considered polite to return presents!" "Do you mean to say----?" began Jack in astonishment. "Just that!" nodded Ned. "The Chief has asked me to take this case in hand and make an attempt to forestall a dangerous man in his suspected attempt to sell out the United States! "This fellow is a 'bad man' who has been engaged in various enterprises of a very suspicious nature whereby he always made money. He has a reputation for being a 'gunrunner' and an opium smuggler, as well as several other things that are decidedly not nice. "His latest act is the alleged theft of some plans of the defences of the Panama Canal, and it is thought that he is going to try to get across the Atlantic and endeavor to sell these plans to one of the nations now concerned in the European war! What makes it worse is that he is a naturalized citizen of the United States, is a trained military man as well as a navigator, and knows that he is wanted to the extent of a very handsome reward. He's a desperate man." "Then all we've got to do is run out and pick him up, return him to the United States Marshal, take a receipt and collect?" "That's all!" "Fine!" put in Harry. "Do we visit the burning mountains of Mexico again or go to the North Pole or into Death Valley?" "Worse than any of those!" soberly declared Ned. "It looks as if we'd have to go across the Atlantic and get mixed up in the scrap over in Europe if we get our man! He is reported to have left Colon some days ago and, if indications are correct, is now on the Atlantic ocean bound for the other side where he hopes to sell the plans." "And the Chief hands us a package like that? Kind of him, I must say!" Harry rather indignantly answered. "No older men handy?" "He asked me to take the case," returned Ned. "If you boys want to help me, all right. It's a dangerous mission, and you are not required to go. There's no disgrace if we fail, and there may be no little credit if we succeed. But he's a dangerous character!" "Let's get out the big car and take a ride around the park to settle our brains," suggested Jack. "I'm all in a whirl!" Gleefully accepting the proposition, the entire party made for the garage. Jimmie alone pleaded that he was hungry and asked to be excused from the trip. He declared that Wolves were always hungry, especially red-headed ones, and that he would await the boys' return to the club rooms. Accordingly he was left behind. A ride through the pleasant scenes of Central Park did much to relieve the boys of the strain under which they had been laboring during the earlier part of the day. They were accompanied by their friend the attorney, who thoroughly enjoyed their company. "We'll have the engine in place tomorrow," Harry announced joyfully, "and then maybe we can plan to take the aeroplane along!" "It seems to be settled, then, that we shall undertake the mission?" inquired Ned, much relieved to note the attitude of his chums in the matter. "This is volunteer service, remember!" "Do you think for a minute that we'd see you undertake a trip of this kind and remain quietly at home?" asked Jack, dividing his attention between the car and Ned. "Why, Ned, Old Scout, we couldn't think of such a thing. It's enough for us if you decide to go anywhere. We'll trail along and do what little we can to help!" "That's the talk, Jack!" declared Harry heartily. "We're with you, Ned, on anything you see fit to undertake!" "If the 'Grey Eagle' only comes up to our expectations," Ned hesitated, "I'd not be afraid to cross the Atlantic in her!" Then, turning to the attorney, he continued: "The new airship is expected to mark a revolution in aerial navigation. We've been working on it this long time, and tomorrow sees the installation of the engines." "Yes, sir," gleefully put in Harry, "that little craft has greater lifting power than any aeroplane of which we have any record. It handles better than a Taube or a Voisin or a Curtiss, and we have had a twenty-four-hour trial of her with the old engines while we were carrying nearly nine hundred pounds weight besides we four boys!" "It's simply marvelous," put in Jack, "the way the craft handles. In the fuselage is room for we four comfortably, and on occasion we can crowd in two more, with plenty of room for stores. Not an inch of space is wasted, but there is no crowding." "To what do you attribute this wonderful lifting power and the other remarkable qualities?" inquired their friend. "Principally to the way the planes are set and balanced," replied Jack. "That is the idea of Ned, here. He has been studying that end of it ever since he shot the eagle on the cliff in California. Really, it is remarkable! Then, with the new engine that Harry has designed, we should be able to make a twenty-four-hour flight as a matter of course, instead of considering it a remarkable matter!" "Come, come, Jack," protested Ned, "you take none of the credit yourself, when you know full well that your share in the affair was not a small one. But let's get back to the club rooms. Jimmie The Wolf will have satisfied his appetite by this time." Accordingly, the car was turned toward home, and in a short time the party again ascended the stairway to the club rooms. Imagine their astonishment to find that Jimmie was not there! For a long time they sat about the rooms discussing the equipment needed for the trip. Details of the case were gone over again and again and discussed from all angles. Intense interest was manifest on the part of all the boys as they talked. A stumbling step on the stair interrupted their talk. Covered with blood, his clothing in tatters, Jimmie half fell into the room, reeling toward a chair in utter exhaustion. "Well, Great Frozen Hot Boxes, I stopped 'em!" he cried. CHAPTER III. Jimmie Stops a Gang. Jimmie apparently forgot his hunger as his chums in the big motor car left the vicinity of the Black Bear club rooms. Casting aside the lemon rind upon which he had been meditatively chewing while they were present, he stepped to the window to watch their departure. Assured that they were safely out of sight, he dashed madly down the stairs with hair rumpled and jacket but half buttoned. Not many minutes passed ere he was seated in one of the numerous east-bound trains on the Long Island Railroad. His destination appeared to be the station nearest the hangar where the boys had located their workshop. His impatience at the frequent stops increased as the distance lessened. He could scarcely sit still. With his lower lids puckered up into a straight line, drawing crow's feet about the corners of his usually wide-open, frank blue eyes, with little lumps of hard muscle protruding from the corners of his jaws, and a bright flush showing in his cheeks underneath the ever-present freckles, Jimmie looked very unlike the merry lad his chums were so well accustomed to greet. He was plainly angry. Scarcely had the train halted at the station where the boys had experienced their difficulty with the motorcycle earlier in the day before Jimmie dropped off. He ran a few steps quickly, then forced himself to a walk. Again he started to run. "Great Frozen Hot Boxes!" murmured the lad, as he strode rapidly along the nearly deserted street. "If Ned could see me now he'd call me to a finish! That's slang, I know, but it goes today!" Turning a corner, Jimmie slowed his pace a trifle until he came near the vacant lot marking the scene of the encounter with the gang of ruffians. Apparently controlling himself with an effort, the boy walked along the fringe of bushes that hid the lot from passers-by. A glance through an opening showed him that the lot was not deserted. Apparently the same group of young fellows occupied the place. Their game of ball, however, had been finished, and they were gathered about a rudely constructed shelter before which blazed a small fire. In a tin bucket simmered a stew of vegetables and meat. All were intently watching the cook's operations. "Howdy do, gentlemen!" Jimmie quietly said as he neared the group. Several jumped up in amazement, for all had been too absorbed to note the advent of the newcomer. "Well, what do you want, now?" demanded one of the lads, addressing Jimmie in a gruff tone of voice with a note of menace. "I'm looking for your captain, or whatever you call him," announced Jimmie in even tones that belied the feelings surging within his breast. Not a hint did he give of the storm within. "This ain't no time to be runnin' around disturbin' us!" growled the spokesman. "You've done enough of that already!" "That's just what I wanted to speak about, if you please," replied Jimmie in his most suave tones. "I feel that there has been too much interference already, and I wanted to square things!" "Oh, you do, do you?" roughly demanded another lad of burly proportions, shoving his way through the group now gathered in a close knot. "Who give you any license to be runnin' around squarin' things? I don't see any streets named after you!" A hot retort was on Jimmie's lips, but he choked it back. From the rear of the crowd came the voice of another lad who, following the instincts of his kind, was ready to give advice, but slow to follow it with actions of his own: "Soak de guy, Pete. He's too lippy, anyhow. His whole gang's too fresh! Dey tink dey can run us 'cause dey got money!" "Sure, soak him!" cried another, edging forward. "If you'll let me know which one of you is captain or leader of your gang, I'll talk business with him!" announced Jimmie, not a particle disturbed by the rough talk and menacing attitude of the tough characters whom he confronted. "I'm de captain of dis bunch!" announced the burly lad boastfully. "If you got any squarin' to do you better take us all down to de corner and set 'em up for de whole lot of us!" Ignoring the suggestion that he buy refreshments for the entire gang, Jimmie faced the lad squarely, and, although his height was much less than that of the fellow whom he addressed, he took a step forward and looked fearlessly into the other's eyes. "There's been a lot of rough stuff pulled off lately," Jimmie stated in a low tone. "Somehow, we've been unable to travel back and forth without running foul of you or your friends. Purely by accident we have had the misfortune to incur your displeasure and----" "Sure, you pulled rough stuff," interrupted the self-styled captain. "You've pulled too much of de rough stuff. You got to quit!" "That's just what I'm here for!" snapped Jimmie, dropping the suave manner. "I came back purposely to put a stop to it." "Well, stop it and get out!" returned the other. "Surest thing you know," gritted Jimmie, "I'll stop it if you've got sand enough to give me a chance. I don't suppose I can handle the whole gang of you, but if you're Americans you'll pick out a man to represent you, and I'll stop him. If I do that, you are to agree that your gang lets us alone. If he stops me, we'll pull up stakes and stay away from this section. Is that fair?" A general laugh went up around the group at this offer, for Jimmie was much smaller than many of the boys, and the proposition appeared so ridiculous that they could not at first believe he could really mean to challenge any of them to combat. "Sure thing," jokingly remarked one of the lads at length, "take him on, Pete, and break him in two. We'll see fair play!" "Is it a go?" asked Jimmie, unbuttoning his jacket. "Why, kid," warned the one addressed as Pete, "you better run home and tell your mother to wipe your nose. This ain't no place for a nice little boy like you. You'll get stepped on!" "You're not able to do that!" flashed back Jimmie, paling with anger. "Your feet are big, but not big enough!" "Now, don't get personal, or I'll have to hurt you!" Jimmie's jacket and hat were on the ground. He stood erect, keeping a watchful eye on the group gathering more closely. "Come on, now," he offered, "I'm giving you a fair chance. If you fellows want to be square and right, pick out one of your gang, and if I lick him, we win. If not, you are welcome to the town. This trouble has got to stop some time, and it might as well be now!" "You guys started it, anyhow!" declared Pete, with an air of injured innocence. "We ain't done nothin' to you!" "You don't call throwing milk bottles into the road to cut our tires anything, then? Maybe you don't call it anything to throw a bat into my machine or to shoot at us?" queried Jimmie. "Aw, go on!" sneered Pete, loftily. "You're too little!" "You're a coward!" declared Jimmie, stooping as if to pick up his jacket and hat. "You're a big bluff! You're afraid!" "You're liar!" retorted the larger lad, adding an epithet of extreme insult as a final rejoinder. Like a flash Jimmie straightened from his crouching posture. Without pausing to recover his poise he shot out a stinging blow that landed on the jaw of the bluffing braggart with a resounding smack. It was followed by another of equal force. Under the unexpected onslaught the lad dropped in his tracks. A gasp went around the group. "Now," announced Jimmie hoarsely, "I'm going to lick somebody, if it takes in the whole gang of you. If you've got a scrapper in this bunch, trot him out, and let's get this thing settled!" "I'll take you on!" announced another lad, stepping forward. "I'm trusting to you fellows to see fair play!" announced Jimmie, watching his new antagonist closely. "Are you ready?" "You bet!" airily replied the new champion. "Come on!" And Jimmie did "come on." Like a whirlwind he went after the larger lad with a vim that kept him on the defensive. Shortly blood was trickling from an injured nose, while cut lips indicated where Jimmie's vicious left had reached the target. From the very first it was apparent that the larger lad had none of the better of the argument. His very weight told against him, in that he was not able to move about as quickly as his lighter antagonist. Fighting rapidly but cautiously, Jimmie dodged heavy swings, always coming back with a return that carried a sting. He was playing a game that he had learned years before when it had been necessary for him to protect his corner on the Bowery from the encroachments of other newsboys. In these encounters he had learned the truth of the old saying that "continual dropping will wear away a stone," although he would not have put it exactly that way. His theory was that if a telling blow were landed early in a fistic encounter, another in the same place would accomplish more than if planted in another spot that was not already sore. Therefore, he endeavored to play for one spot, while his antagonist scattered his attention to any portion of Jimmie's body that he thought might be reached. Oftener than not Jimmie was well out of reach by the time his opponent arrived. In this manner the smaller lad kept up a continual rain of light jabs, waiting for an opening at the other's jaw. His theory was soon proven correct. Becoming enraged at his unsuccessful attempts to land a knockout, the larger lad at length tried to rush Jimmie. This, apparently, was just what was wanted. A sidestep, a quick forward lunge, accompanied by a lightning-like hook, and the bully went down to stay. Jimmie's fist had connected squarely. Absorbed in watching the defeated lad, Jimmie had failed to observe that Pete had regained his feet. Too late to protect himself, he realized his danger. A terrific smash full in the face felled the Wolf, to the cheers of some and shouts of disapproval from others. "Cut it, Pete! Play square! Have a heart!" some shouted. Although staggered by the unexpected and brutal attack, Jimmie lost no time in getting to his feet. Exhausted by his recent battle, and with no time to recover his wind, the lad was scarcely a match for his burly foe. Employing all the tricks of which he was master, he managed to avoid the other's rush, but was compelled to take severe punishment, in exchange for which he offered little aggressiveness. Directly an opening appeared, to Jimmie's delight. One straight arm punch, delivered with his entire remaining strength, fell squarely on the bully's face. He tripped and fell backward, landing bodily on the kettle wherein the boys had been cooking their stew. Several of his comrades hastened to rescue their fallen friend, while others crowded around Jimmie to offer congratulations. Disengaging himself from their attentions as quickly as he could, Jimmie hastened back to the station and, without attempting to make himself presentable, took the next train to the city. Arriving there he made his way in a taxi to the club rooms of the Black Bear Patrol. Well nigh exhausted from his severe struggle, the boy staggered up the stairs, burst into the club room and announced his victory: "Great Frozen Hot Boxes, I stopped 'em!" Ned jumped to his feet, preparing to go to Jimmie's assistance. He was interrupted by the whirring of the telephone bell. "Hello! This is Nestor. What's that? We'll be right out!" Turning a startled face to his companions, Ned cried: "The watchman says the hangar is burning!" CHAPTER IV. Fire and Its Result. "Get the big car out as quick as you can, Harry!" suggested Jack. "Ned, help me wash up this young Wolf, and we'll put him to bed and then hurry out there. Things are moving pretty fast today!" Despite a weakness in his knees, Jimmie was already on his feet. With a protesting hand raised to decline assistance, he made unsteadily for the wash room. He would not admit defeat. "No, you don't!" he announced. "You don't put me to bed while you fellows go out and have a lot of fun. I'm going with you!" "But you are in a horribly messed-up state! What happened?" "Get out that new uniform from my locker," Jimmie urged, "and I'll wash up a bit, and be on hand in a jiffy. I'm all right!" After a questioning glance at Ned, which was answered with a nod, Jack dashed for the locker and produced a clean uniform. Willingly the two lads assisted Jimmie to remove as much as possible the marks of his recent encounter. Quickly divesting himself of his soiled and blood-stained garments, the lad slipped into his new uniform and dashed down the stairs, fastening buttons as he went. Behind him clattered Jack and Ned, followed by the attorney. "I'm going, too, if you have room for me," stated Mr. Nobles. "Hop in," invited Jimmie, "but you'll have to hang onto your teeth, for Harry gets absent-minded sometimes, and drives as if there were no speed ordinances. He likes to burn up tires!" Not a second was lost by the party in stowing themselves into the big car, which Harry at once headed for the east side. Across the Williamsburg bridge he began to demonstrate the value of Jimmie's advice. The lad dashed under the noses of teams, in front of trolley cars, and through traffic generally in a way that threatened collision a dozen times. However, he was completely master of the car and by his daring and skill avoided accident. During the time that the congestion of traffic required a moderate pace, Jimmie enlightened Mr. Nobles with stories of Harry's ability and skill as a driver of automobiles in dangerous places. "Why, one time when we were out west," he related, "we saw a cyclone coming. We knew that if it ever caught us we would be surely goners, so Harry just got us into the car and started ahead of it. He went so fast that we couldn't see anything at all of the landscape. A man with us thought he'd look ahead, but there were so many chickens and things caught on the wind shield he couldn't see, so he put up his head once to look over. Do you know, we were going so fast the wind actually blew that fellow's teeth right down his throat when he opened his mouth to tell us there was a big canyon right ahead?" In spite of the nervous tension under which the boys were laboring, they joined in the laugh which the attorney started. "Where was this, Jimmie, and what car did you use?" "Up in Montana," gravely answered Jimmie, the while his eyes twinkled. "The car was that same little old 'Scout' we had when we found the 'Hidden Dynamo' that those train robbers used. It was near Kicking Horse Canyon in the Crazy mountains. Some ride!" "You'll do, all right, Jimmie!" laughingly remarked Mr. Nobles. "For speed, you certainly have made a record!" "Hang on!" warned Harry over his shoulder. "We're going to get out of town, as that freight conductor used to say." For a few miles conversation was impossible. Harry's expert manipulations of the big car produced a burst of speed that would have been positively dangerous in less skillful hands. The boys took great pride in keeping every piece of machinery used by them in perfect order at all times, in preparation for an emergency such as the present, and, therefore, felt no less confidence in the machine than they did in its driver. To the attorney, however, the ride was anything but pleasant, and he was glad when Harry abruptly slackened pace. At once the reason for this sudden change in speed was apparent. A burly constable with raised hand blocked the path. "What's the charge, officer?" demanded Harry. "Speedin'," was the laconic response, grimly delivered. "Where's your station house?" "About half a mile ahead," was the reply. "I'll ride." "Climb in!" heartily invited Harry. "Get into the back seat, there," he added, with a wink at his chums. "Hurry up!" Scarcely had the officer seated himself when Harry again started the car, urging it to a high speed in spite of the protests from their guest, who was wedged fast between the other occupants. "We're goin' to a fire!" announced Jimmie impatiently. "If you'll just quit that noise you're makin' we'll give you a fast ride, and then bring you back to the station house right side up with care!" Regardless of vigorous threats from the unwilling captive, Harry maintained a rapid pace, and was soon out of the village, and in sight of the hangar which the boys had left earlier in the day. Scarcely had the car stopped before a gate leading into the enclosure surrounding the hangar ere the boys leaped to the ground. Ned already had his key in hand, so that no time was lost in gaining an entrance. Dashing toward the hangar the boys were surprised to observe a group of lads of about their own age standing about the watchman, who was inspecting a partly burned side of the building. At once these boys were recognized as members of the gang which had been encountered by the three motorcyclists earlier in the day. Ned paused a moment, swung his hand to his hip pocket, where he carried an automatic pistol, and then advanced toward the crowd. "What does this mean?" he inquired brusquely of the watchman, who stood nervously wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Why, Mr. Nestor," replied that individual, "I was sitting in the little office there by the gate not thinking of any danger when I happened to look out of the window and saw smoke coming up from behind the hangar there. I telephoned to the club rooms right away and then came out here with the fire extinguisher. "Just as I came around the corner I saw a man squeeze through the fence there where some boards are pried off and then I went at the fire. I guess it would have got the best of me even then if it hadn't been for these young men who came through the same hole in the fence and helped by throwing dirt on the blaze. They saved the hangar and the Grey Eagle, too, Mr. Nestor. They have done bravely!" Releasing his grasp on the automatic Ned stepped forward with hand outstretched to the foremost member of the group. The leader, with badly bruised lips and a blackened eye, confusedly extended his hand to grasp Ned's proffered palm. Ned's shake was a hearty one. "I want to thank you on behalf of the Boy Scouts," he began. "You have given us valuable service and we will not be apt to forget it. My name's Nestor. I want you to meet my friends," he added, turning toward his chums, who had followed him closely. "We met them earlier in the day," smiled the lad. "In fact, we met the little fellow twice. I remember the second meeting well! He handed me this and this," indicating his injured eye and lips. "He surely is some scrapper, all right, and we're glad to get acquainted!" "Pete thinks so, too!" announced another member of the group. With a sheepish grin the boy called Pete now stepped forward, extending his hand first to Ned and then to Jimmie. "I'm obliged to you," he stated, addressing Jimmie. "I guess it was just that trimmin' I needed. We've been talkin' things over since you left us and we've decided we'd like to join the Boy Scouts if you'll have us. You look pretty good to all of us!" "Hurray!" shouted Jimmie through his own bruised lips. "Ned, here's a chance to form a new Patrol. What do you say?" "We'll talk it over," Ned answered. "It means a great deal." "Well, your fire is out and if you've got a hammer and some nails we'll fix the fence for you and then we might as well go home," volunteered one of the boys. "We can't do any more here. But you mustn't forget to let us know about our joining the Scouts." Having followed more slowly, the constable now approached the boys. "Well," he growled, "if you fellows are ready, you might come along back with me and visit the station. But I warn you, no more speedin'!" Then examining the group more closely he cried: "Hello, Pete, what you doin' here? You git home!" "Hello, Dad!" replied Pete. "I'm ready to go now." "How'd you get here, anyhow?" inquired the constable, who proved to be none other than the father of the lad known as Pete. Explanations of the day's adventures so far as Pete was concerned were given, wherein Jimmie and his chums received full credit from the now friendly Pete and his comrades. They dwelt at some length on Jimmie's courage and ability as well as his spirit of fairness. "Well, all I've got to say," decided the constable at the conclusion of the tale, "is that I rode with you fellers and I didn't see no speedin'! If you'll give me a ride back to town, I'll be much obliged. Anybody that can lick that boy of mine can't get arrested for speedin' in this town while I'm constable!" "Thank you," replied Ned. "We won't exceed the limit in your town unless we know it is necessary. Just now, I'm great puzzled about the identity of the fire-bug and his reason for burning the hangar." "Maybe it's some anarchist who's sore because he hasn't got an airship of his own," ventured Jack. "Some folks play 'dog in the manger,' especially if they're down on their luck a little!" "My dream book," interrupted Jimmie, "says to look out for a tall, short, dark complexioned man who is smooth-shaven and wears pink whiskers and light hair. He is in some way connected with the Panama Canal and hates water! Perhaps he's trying to stop something!" "A most accurate description of the very fellow!" laughed Jack. "I think I saw him in my dreams last night!" Ned glanced quickly towards Jimmie. Often in the past he had discovered that Jimmie's insight and powers of jumping at conclusions had been the means of leading the boys out of puzzling situations and now assumed that the boy's jocular manner was simply a cloak for more serious thoughts. Using the deaf and dumb language, he signalled: "Come to one side. I want to talk to you." Walking slightly apart from the group now proceeding toward the gate where the big automobile had
{'title': 'Boy Scouts with Joffre; Or, In the Trenches in Belgium by G. Harvey Ralphson', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}