Читать книгу The Boy Scouts and the Army Airship - John Henry Goldfrap - Страница 6

Table of Contents

“You’d better keep out of this, Jack Curtiss,” warned Rob, not at all perturbed. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“Oh, you don’t! I suppose you didn’t have me sent to pris—I mean to a friend’s for a visit, and you didn’t try to fix Bill Bender? I’ve got some scores against you, Rob Blake, and I’m going to pay them out, right now.”

This tirade proved as astonishing to Hunt and his companions as it did to our boys. Rob and his friends had supposed that Curtiss and Bender were still in prison in the West for the part they had played in the cattle rustling raids. They did not know that influence had been brought to bear in their favor, and on account of their youth the lads had been released. Both had arrived in the village the day before, getting off the train at a distant station and driving to their homes unnoticed. That afternoon they had been taking a stroll in the woods, killing small animals and stoning birds. They were on their way home, when the noise of the encounter in the road attracted their attention.

But somehow, although Jack Curtiss’s arm was raised, it did not fall. Instead, he suddenly thought better of the matter, and retreated, mumbling angrily. Perhaps it had occurred to him that he was not in good odor in the village anyway, and to become mixed up in a fight or attack on the boys might result in his once again being compelled to leave the place.

“Come on, Jack,” put in Bill Bender; “no use mixing up in this thing. I hope that Rob Blake gets the thrashing he deserves, though, and——”

“I guess he won’t get it this time,” laughed Tubby, pointing to Hunt, who, the first shock of astonishment at the interruption over, sat nursing his face on the bank.

“Here, don’t you interfere,” said Lem Lonsdale, stepping forward threateningly.

“Huh! You want to fight, too?” demanded the fat boy, rolling up his sleeves pugnaciously.

“No; I’ll settle with you some other time,” responded Lonsdale, with all the dignity he could command.

“Come on, fellows. Let’s be getting on home,” exclaimed Rob, who had no wish to prolong the affair.

“All right, I’m ready,” chimed in Merritt. “I don’t like the company around here very well.”

Hunt still sat on the bank, nursing his jaw, and Rob began to be afraid that he had hit harder than he had intended. He approached the other with his hand outstretched.

“I’m sorry, Hunt,” he said, “but you brought it on yourself, old scout. See here, let’s you and I get together and try to cement friendship between the Hawks and the Eagles. It isn’t the scout game to sulk and have ructions. Shake hands, won’t you, and we’ll call it off and run the two patrols in harmony.”

Hunt heard him to the end with sullen apathy. No change of expression crossed his face. As Rob concluded, however, he looked up and said:

“Are you through?”

“Yes, I guess that’s about all. Except that——”

“Except nothing!” almost screamed Hunt, springing to his feet, “I hate you, Rob Blake. Ever since you got back from that fool western trip of yours, you’ve tried to run the village. You won’t do it, see? Don’t talk friendship to me. I’ll fight you to the last ditch, you see if I won’t.”

“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it,” said Rob, with a slight sigh, “there’s nothing I can do. But it isn’t right that two patrols of Boy Scouts should be at loggerheads, just because of your envious temper—for that’s all it amounts to.”

Hunt, white-faced and trembling, was about to make another spring at Rob, when Dale caught him and held him back.

“Don’t be a chump, Freeman,” he said in a low voice, “Rob Blake is more than your match. Let him go. There are other ways to get at him.”

Rob and his chums did not hear this last remark, and bidding the others “Good-night,” a politeness which was not responded to, they continued on their way, leaving behind them three astonished and angry lads, and the two youths who already had shown in numerous ways that they wished all the harm possible to the Boy Scouts.

“Wonder how Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender got out of their trouble in Arizona?” mused Merritt, as they hastened along through the fast-gathering gloom.

“Don’t know,” responded Tubby, and neither could Rob furnish any explanation. It was not until they entered the village that they learned the true reason of the unscrupulous youths’ presence in Hampton. The little place was a-buzz with it, and various plans of protest were talked over. But, as is the case in most small towns in a matter of that kind, no one was willing to “bell the cat,” namely, notify Jack’s and Bill’s parents that the boys were not wanted. So they remained in town, and their presence soon became unremarked. In the meantime, however, an alliance had been formed between Freeman Hunt and his particular friends and Jack Curtiss and Bill Bender, which boded ill for our lads. To the warnings of their boy friends, however, Rob, Merritt and Tubby only rejoined with laughter. They felt that they had nothing to fear from such a company, in which, as the sequel will show, they were very much mistaken.

On Rob’s arrival at home that night, he hastened to his room to remove all traces of his encounter. Washed and dressed, he was about to descend to the library, when, to his astonishment, he heard a strange voice conversing with his father in that room. Yet there was something familiar in the tones, too. Where had he heard it before? At last Rob heard “Good-nights” exchanged between his father and the stranger, and soon after came the swift “chug-chug” of an auto, which, apparently, had been driven around the house, for the boy had not noticed it when he returned home.

“Who was your visitor, father?” inquired Rob, as he sat down to dinner that evening.

“Why, a Lieutenant Duvall, of the regular army,” was the rejoinder. “Do you know him?”

Mr. Blake broke off abruptly, for Rob had given a cry of astonishment as he heard the name.

“Know him? I should say so. Why, he’s the fellow who led those troops into the Moqui Valley. Don’t you remember, when they were giving the snake dance, and——”

“Oh, Rob, I cannot bear to hear about such things!” exclaimed his mother. “You might have been killed by those Indians.”

“I guess they would have liked to do something like that,” responded Rob, with a laugh, “but it all ended happily, mother.

“Why, as I said, he was the officer who led the cavalry to our rescue. What can he be doing here?”

“Well, what about Lieutenant Duvall?” demanded his father.

“I do not know. He was very reticent about his business. He came to me with a letter of introduction. You know, he has rented the old De Regny place.”

“What, the old haunted villa north of here?”

“That’s the place,” rejoined Mr. Blake. “I can’t imagine why he wants it, but, beyond saying that he was here on official business, connected with aeronautical experiments, he would not give me any inkling of the object of his occupancy of the place. His errand to me was to open an account in the bank.”

“It is odd,” mused Rob. “The De Regny place hasn’t been occupied for many years, has it, father?”

“Not since Napoleon was sent to St. Helena by the British, my boy. General de Regny, who built the place, was one of the great French leader’s most devoted marshals. After Waterloo, he came over here, apparently at Napoleon’s own behest, and built this house on the seashore. They say that secret passages run into the grounds from the beach. If this is so, the entrances to them have never been found.”

“What did he want secret passages for?” asked Mrs. Blake, to whom the story was comparatively new. Rob had already heard it in various forms from a dozen sources about the village.

“Why, you see, it is always supposed that there was a plan on foot to rescue Napoleon from St. Helena,” explained Mr. Blake. “In that case, the supposition is, he would have made direct for the Long Island coast, and have been landed in the De Regny home by means of the secret passage from the beach. Of course, you recall the square, glass-sided watch-tower on the summit of the house. That, I imagine, was placed there so that the sea could be constantly scanned for a trace of the approaching vessel bearing the rescued emperor. But, of course, he never came, and in time De Regny died, and the property went to some heirs of his in Virginia. What the government or Lieutenant Duvall can want with it, is beyond my comprehension.”

After dinner Rob lost no time in slipping off to find Merritt and Tubby Hopkins. By telephoning, he found out that they had both gone to the home of Paul Perkins, who will be recalled as the winner of the model aeroplane contest described in the first volume of this series, and the aeronautical enthusiast of the Eagle Patrol.

Thither, accordingly, Rob hastened to find his friends and communicate the surprising news concerning the old De Regny place. Paul’s mother informed him that he would find the boys in the old wagon house.

“In the wagon house?” exclaimed Rob in some astonishment.

“Yes,” rejoined Mrs. Perkins. “Paul has some sort of contrivance out there. Whether it’s to fly, crawl or walk, I don’t know. I only hope he won’t break his neck or spile his pants with it, like he did the last time he flitted on wings, and tried to flop from ther wagon house roof.”

“Did he break his neck, ma’am?” inquired Rob, with a perfectly serious countenance.

“No, he did not,” innocently rejoined Mrs. Perkins, “but he tore his pants suthin’ awful.”

Sure enough, as Rob approached the wagon house, he could see light streaming from the wide chinks of the tumble-down place, and could catch the sound of boyish voices within.

“And what is that, Paul?” he heard Merritt’s voice inquiring.

“That’s the propeller,” rejoined Paul, with a quiver of pride in his voice.

“Say, where do you keep the grub?”

“That must be Tubby,” thought Rob, with a smile. Hastening forward, he rapped at the door.

“Come in!” exclaimed Paul, as Rob, at the same instant, uttered the patrol cry in a peculiar, low tone.

Rob pushed open the door, and saw before him, illuminated by the light of a stable lantern, the most peculiar looking piece of machinery he had ever set eyes on.

“What is it?” he gasped in astonishment.

“It’s a motor-scooter,” declared Paul, with the inventor’s pride vibrating in his voice. He held the lamp aloft so that its radiance streamed on a glittering, bewildering mass of bars, levers, connecting rods and brace wires.