When Scout Meets Scout E-Book

Ashton Lamar

• Herausgeber: Publisher s11838
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

When Scout Meets Scout or, The Aeroplane Spy written by Ashton Lamar who was a newspaperman and novelist. This book was published in 1912. And now republish in ebook format. We believe this work is culturally important in its original archival form. While we strive to adequately clean and digitally enhance the original work, there are occasionally instances where imperfections such as missing pages, poor pictures or errant marks may have been introduced due to either the quality of the original work. Despite these occasional imperfections, we have brought it back into print as part of our ongoing global book preservation commitment, providing customers with access to the best possible historical reprints. We appreciate your understanding of these occasional imperfections, and sincerely hope you enjoy reading this book.

Leseprobe

When Scout Meets Scout

or, The Aeroplane Spy

By

Ashton Lamar

Illustrator: S.H. Riesenberg

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I. A STORM CLOUD GATHERS

CHAPTER II. AN EMISSARY FROM THE ENEMY

CHAPTER III. THE BATTLE AT THE OLD SYCAMORE

CHAPTER IV. THE BITTER FRUITS OF DEFEAT

CHAPTER V. MR. TREVOR’S MYSTERIOUS INVITATION

CHAPTER VI. WHAT CAME OUT OF A TEA PARTY

CHAPTER VII. ARTHUR’S DEAL WITH A CIRCUS HAND

CHAPTER VIII. AN AFTERNOON AT THE CIRCUS

CHAPTER IX. THE CIRCUS LOSES ITS AVIATOR

CHAPTER X. THE BOY SCOUTS’ FIRST SALUTE

CHAPTER XI. THE “COYOTES” INVADE ELM STREET

CHAPTER XII. THE CASK IN THE RIVER

CHAPTER XIII. MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS

CHAPTER XIV. MARSHAL WALTER MAKES A CAPTURE AT LAST

CHAPTER XV. GOOSETOWN’S PRODIGAL SONS

CHAPTER XVI. WHEN SCOUT MEETS SCOUT

CHAPTER XVII. THE AEROPLANE SPY

Capture of the Tiger.

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 TournamentYoung Aviators Club

Toy Aeroplane Flying ForDistance 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.