“where’ve you been?” demanded the factory umpire instantly.
“i’ve been asleep in the tent,” responded connie, smiling.
“how long?” continued his questioner.
“’bout an hour and a half!”
“have you been out of bounds?” broke in professor souter.
“no, sir. i’ve never been over a few hundred yards from this spot.”
“then you must have disguised yourself,” suggested the third umpire.
“no, sir—i did not. ever’thing has been fair an’ square.”
“then i think it’s up to you to tell us how you passed through this crowd without anyone seeing you,” exclaimed mr. chase of the table factory skeptically.
“i didn’t go through the crowd,” laughed connie provokingly. “i went under it.”
[233]
“alexander!” exclaimed mr. conyers, “make a report to the committee at once of where you have been.”
“very simple,” began connie. “as we planned, the boys covered me with a heap of cut thistles only a few hundred yards up the road, around the bend. we did it because i calculated all the fellows chasing us would start out on the run and not look around very much just next to the camp.”
“i looked in that pile of thistles,” protested carrots compton. “you wasn’t so smart.”
“you were too late,” went on connie. “you see, i was the first one hid, and i had almost a half hour leeway. it was pretty hot and prickly under the thistles, and i didn’t know if i could stand it. then while i was movin’ around tryin’ to make a sort of nest, all of a sudden i felt a kind of draft. it was so strong i knew i was near a hole of some kind—and that’s what i was. just back of where i was lyin’ there was a cave-in in the ground. some one had laid a few rails acrost it, and then the thistles was piled on there—to keep the stock out, i guess.”
“i seen that hole,” interrupted carrots.[234] “there wasn’t nothin’ in it but some rails an’ weeds.”
“that was later,” laughed connie. “the hole was a break in the big three-foot cement tile. when i felt the wind suckin’ in there i knew it was empty, and i could see it was dry. i knew it ran right along the road by the camp an’ ended by the river bank. i took a chance and dropped down into it. then to make it look as if no one could have done it, i pulled in the rails an’ thistles an’ started for the river.”
“in the ditch tile?” asked mr. trevor alarmed.
“sure!” answered connie. “it was dark for a long time, and there was things there—something like a water rat i reckon it was, kept runnin’ ahead o’ me. an’ i think there was a snake or two—judgin’ by the sounds—but it didn’t bother me. i could see daylight after a long crawl, an’ then i felt better, ’cause it got cooler. once some one looked in the open end o’ the drain, but i laid flat an’ still. an’ when i got to the river there wasn’t anyone in sight. i crawled out an’ snook along under the high bank about twenty-five feet an’ crawled up into the tent from the back. so’s to be sure no one would look in an’ see me i[235] crawled under some bedclothes an’ then i went to sleep. that’s all.”
mr. chase attempted, for a moment, to make a point that art, connie and colly craighead had gone out of bounds by crossing the river line. but the umpires rejected his contention as the conditions clearly specified “beyond the river” and not “in it or on it.” when the list was checked up, all names and numbers were found to agree with the umpires’ list and the coyotes were officially credited with having found eight of the ten wolf “hide outs.”
then followed the luncheon hour. every shady tree seemed to have its group of picnickers busy with fried chicken, jelly cake, potato salad, pickles and like refreshments. the coyotes were guests of the wolves at a special spread. everyone ate hurriedly, for the real struggle was yet to come. the wolves knew what they had to do to win and, figuratively, they pawed the ground eager for the start. sharp at one o’clock the ten coyotes marched out on the road with the committee. at one thirty the straining wolves were turned loose.
but, to the surprise of the spectators, the wolves trotted down the road only beyond the crowd. there they came to a stop and each[236] scout could be seen attaching a large white flag to his staff—all except art trevor and willie bonner who did not even carry staffs. then, leader conyers was observed to take from his pocket a roll of paper and trace his finger over it as if giving certain directions.
this done, connie and seven other boys separated and spreading out like the sticks of a fan, took to their heels. there was an advance to right and left over fences, several scouts started straight down the road, and two boys set out up and down the river. art and willie bonner waited until their mates had begun to disappear and then they turned and ran back to the camp.
the astonished spectators gazed at them without comment. the two wolves silently trotted into the camp and then toward the bridge in the rear. it was not until the bridge began to rattle under the feet of art and bonner that curiosity found words. at that point the factory umpire called:
“here, you fellows! you’re going out of bounds!”
but the running scouts proceeded without a pause.
“you’re wrong,” explained professor souter.[237] “the pursuers can go where they please. it’s the ‘hide outs’ only who must keep within the district.”
to confirm this, a fact well understood by art and his companions, the rules were examined and professor souter was found to be right.
“i hope they ain’t givin’ up,” laughed the factory owner. “a real sport sticks, win or lose.”
“i think they’ll be back,” spoke up mr. trevor, who seemed to be the only person not mystified. “meanwhile,” he added addressing the hundreds present, “i have been told by the wolves that you need expect no bulletins from the field until the enemy has been located.”
between the wonder over the apparent retreat of two of the wolves, and some disappointment over this news—which made it plain that they must have a system and meant to give all their time to the search instead of running in to report each man found—the crowd gradually melted away among the trees.
a few minutes after two o’clock a man lying in the grass suddenly sprang up with a shout and wildly waving arms. as he plunged toward[238] the open, dusty road a wave of picnickers joined him.
“an aeroplane!” rose in a chorus. “a flyin’ machine!”
high above the road leading back to town, a brown expanse of canvas was gliding through the air toward the iron bridge as swiftly and steadily as a hawk with its eye fixed on a field mouse below. the whirr of two glistening propellers ran before the object. on its lower frame sat two boys. one of them with a small object in his lap, was holding a pair of field glasses on the gaping crowd. the other, with his hands upon the levers, was holding the machine on a course directly over the road.
“it’s trevor and that circus boy!” yelled some one. and almost before the crowd could get on the road, willie bonner’s resurrected aeroplane slid over the camp and, with an upward dart, was beyond the gaping crowd.
“nothin’ doin’!” yelled an excited man, mr. chase. “they can’t put that over on our boys. this ain’t a circus. the rules say: ‘no outside help.’ that’s outside help. rule ’em out.”
the umpires, puzzled, looked at each other. then adherents of the two patrols crowded[239] about the committee, shouting, protesting or denying charges. bonner had banked and headed his aeroplane down the river and was out of sight before a decision was reached. but in the end, even the coyotes’ umpire had to agree that the use of the aeroplane was within the rules, as it belonged to the wolves and was operated by them.
those in the camp who first saw the aeroplane shooting across the river, at once connected it with the two boys who had disappeared in that direction. but the concealed coyotes had no such suggestion to help them in identifying the occupants of the aeroplane. this was as the wolves had hoped and expected.
“now,” began bonner as the aeroplane headed down the river, “get ready. i’ll cover every foot of the district. watch your chart and use your glasses. i reckon those who are inside of anything’ll pop out to see what’s doin’.”
“it’s a cinch,” chuckled art. “they ain’t one of ’em knows about the machine. just keep high enough so they can’t make out our faces, an’ i’ll do the rest with the glasses.”
[240]
“an’ them we miss, the other boys ought to get.”
the first results amply proved that the boys’ theory was a good one. near the county fair road, in the southwest corner of the district, a small, scum-covered cow pond stood in a low pasture. art, using his glass, made out a wolf running from the pond, which he had evidently examined with no result. as art kept his glass on the opaque green pool, the aeroplane made a circling sweep. when it was about to pass over the water, a slime-coated boy, dripping water and mud, scrambled up out of the center of the pond, his face upturned, his eyes staring and his mouth open.
“number nine,” exclaimed art. after another squint with the glass he added jubilantly: “joe andrews. he just had his nose out.”
while the aeroplane swung to the end of the district, art jotted the name and number on his chart. bonner’s machine was not a varnished, silk-winged aeroplane. the new white linen sections on the old, soiled and oily planes were even grotesque. but it was built on scientific principles, light and stout, carried a four-cylinder, twenty horse power motor that was working as well as it did before the accident[241] at the circus. the principal expense in the rebuilding of the flying machine had been the cost of a new magneto. other needed material had been secured in scottsville.
“now,” suggested the jubilant young aviator, “we’ll take a turn about the whole district and look wherever it seems unlikely anyone would hide.”
the circuit required less than twelve minutes, and the aeroplane passed the camp again. not a coyote was seen but the wolves were picked out, scattered here and there, by their white staff flags. turning westward at the camp road, the aeroplane headed directly across the “hide out” district. art kept his glass busy, but no coyote head rewarded him.
“that looks like about the last place anyone would hide,” suggested art pointing directly ahead. “let’s try it.”
he referred to a broad wheat field which spread over the top of a low hill. the crop had been cut and threshed, and a large part of the field had been newly plowed. the plowed part covered the crest of the rolling field and was apparently devoid of all life except blackbirds. a white-flagged wolf could be seen in[242] the distance cutting across a corner of the plowed slope.
the aeroplane pilot gripped his levers anew and the machine rolled upward on the air billows, while art’s nerves tingled with the joy of the chase.
“make a swing and come back!” he suddenly exclaimed. “there’s something in a furrow. it’s one of ’em!”
without looking, bonner made a wide swing and turned over the brow of the rise.
“it is!” almost shouted art. “it’s one of ’em! but he’s on his side. i can’t make out his number. you couldn’t see him twenty yards away.” he turned and twisted to keep his glasses on the half buried figure. “he saw us. he’s on. he ain’t moved an inch. try again.”
twice more the sputtering aeroplane circled over the lifeless looking figure, each time flying lower.
“i’m sure it’s nick apthorp,” whispered art, “but i can’t get his number.”
“well,” replied bonner, “we’d better give some one the tip.”
three white staffs were in sight. bonner headed the dipping aeroplane toward the nearest[243] one. when it was seen that the aeroplane spies had caught the watching wolf’s eye, art waved his hat. the wolf with the flag, colly craighead, responded by dipping his pennant and then, as the hawk-like aeroplane banked again and mounted skyward over the higher field, colly set out on a dead run.
when the motionless figure came in sight again art crouched low in his seat. directly above the silent figure art’s arm shot out and a small bag dropped swiftly to the plowed ground beneath. a cloud of white arose and, ten feet from the concealed coyote, the rich black soil glared out in a spot of snow white flour.
“he sees it,” shouted art. “colly’s got his measure all right. i guess we’ve nailed two hard ones, anyway.”
just at this moment young bonner noticed that the oil gauge was empty. with a reassuring word to allay art’s fears he made a sharp bank and glide for the hard and smooth phillipstown road. while the two boys were bending low over the engine, about five minutes later a call sounded from an apple orchard about a hundred yards away.
[244]
“hey there!” yelled a voice. “is the show free?”
art whirled to see a boy standing in an old cider barrel and just about to spring out.
“sure,” yelled art. “always free to our friends.”
at the sound of art’s voice the struggling boy turned his glance upward again and then thrust his body back into the tight-fitting barrel.
“who was it?” asked bonner still busy with the engine.
“mart clare, number three,” chuckled art as he made another note on his chart. “betrayed by his curiosity.”
mart apparently did not realize that he was out of the running, for he kept to his stuffy hiding place while the feed pipe was readjusted and the two spies had made a new ascent. it was then three o’clock.
“it’s time to round up,” announced bonner. “the boys’ll be lookin’ for us.”
again the stout little airship began to circle the “hide out” territory. with his field glasses art could make out white flags in all directions. carrying out a prearranged plan,[245] bonner headed the aeroplane from one sentinel-like wolf to the next one. as the first one was passed he reversed his staff and held its head on the ground. a look of disappointment passed over the face of each boy in the aeroplane and art made a check on the chart in his lap. it was sammy addington’s report—a blank.
the next wolf the aeroplane picked up held his staff out like a semaphore and then moved it up and down four times.
signaling the “aeroplane spy”
“that’s better!” exclaimed art. “i wonder who number four is.”
flitting over the fields, forests and roads beneath, the “scouts of the air” were soon signalled by colly craighead who confirmed his discovery of the coyote in the hill furrow by eight movements of his flag. then, in turn, came a wolf who they saw was davy cooke, who announced he had seen number two; paul corbett reported number four sighted and then while art was busy checking this information, bonner caught an extra message of one flash.
“i wonder if he means he saw number five, or number four and number one!” exclaimed art, in doubt what to put down. “we already have number four.”
[246]
the next searcher to communicate with the aeroplane answered this; phil abercrombie flashed five times.
“great!” shouted the aviator. “only one blank so far. there’s connie,” he added. “bully for you, old man! he’s got number ten. that ought to be lucky.”
for some minutes no other wolves could be made out. bonner took another flight south and returned to find two white flags coming out into the main road from a lane. they were some distance away and art was not sure but that they were among those who had already reported. as he trained his glasses on them they waved, “six” and “seven.” there was a quick check of his list by art and then, with a yell of victory he tore loose the bow of a string beneath his seat, and the bright blue wolf patrol pennant dropped fluttering into the wind.
every wolf scout within sight of the flag knew what it meant. at the first sight of the banner the wolf call came from far and near. eight widely scattered wolf scouts threshed the air with white pennants, and at twenty minutes after three o’clock, like the closing sticks of a fan, the wolf searchers—led by the fluttering[247] flag on the aeroplane above—were converging on the distant camp.
there was no quibble about the victory. when the coyote scouts reached camp, hank milleson was quick to shake the winners by the hand. “we got our trimmin’s,” he exclaimed with a laugh. “but we got ’em fair an’ square. i reckon a few brains are as good as a bunch o’ muscle.”
“no hard feelin’s?” smiled connie.
“not on your life,” answered hank. “you deserve it, an’ we got to hand it to you—even if we did lose our hundred dollars. mebbe it’s worth that to find out a thing or two.”
“cut out the hot air,” broke in art with a grin. “we got a lot to do yet. we got somethin’ up our sleeve for you kids yet if you’re with us.”
“ain’t goin’ to rub it in, are you?” asked hank with mock seriousness.
“listen,” explained art with the eagerness of long pent-up enthusiasm. “you know the big meadow up at cloverdale?”
the coyotes nodded their heads.
“well, we got the shape of a big man-o’-war marked out with whitewash, out in the middle of it. bonner’s goin’ to take the flyin’ machine[248] right up there an’ we’re goin’ to have a new game.”
blank looks showed on every face.
“we’re goin’ to throw bombs o’ paper bags full o’ flour at a big target on the man-o’-war—”
playing at war
“who?” came in chorus. “from the aeroplane?”
“ever’ one of us! coyotes an’ wolves! we’re goin’ to draw lots. ever’ kid gets a ride on the aeroplane an’ three trials.”
while every coyote stood open-mouthed—lost in the wild wave of joy that so suddenly engulfed him—mr. trevor stepped forward.
“and when it’s too dark to throw any more bombs, the cloverdale farm invites every scout here to a last contest of the day—a test to see if each of you can eat a whole smothered chicken and a quart of ice cream.”
“boys,” exclaimed hank milleson when he finally regained some composure, “there ain’t but one thing to it: three cheers for the boy scouts of the air!”
these had not yet died away when carrots compton added:
“an’ the aeroplane spy!”
[249]
as carrots gave art trevor a big boy-slap on the back, the table-factory owner turned and walked to his automobile with a snort of disgust.
