The Boy Scouts of the Eagle Patrol by Robert Drake
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Robert Drake >> The Boy Scouts of the Eagle Patrol
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11 THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE EAGLE PATROL
By Lieut. Howard Payson
CHAPTER I
SCOUTS ON THE TRAIL
The dark growth of scrub oak and pine parted suddenly and the
lithe figure of a boy of about seventeen emerged suddenly into
the little clearing. The lad who had so abruptly materialized
from the close-growing vegetation peculiar to the region about
the little town of Hampton, on the south shore of Long Island,
wore a well-fitting uniform of brown khaki, canvas leggings of
the same hue and a soft hat of the campaign variety, turned up at
one side. To the front of his headpiece was fastened a metal
badge, resembling the three-pointed arrow head utilized on old
maps to indicate the north. On a metal scroll beneath it were
embossed the words: "Be Prepared."
The manner of the badge's attachment would have indicated at
once, to any one familiar with the organization, that the lad
wearing it was the patrol leader of the local band of Boy Scouts.
Gazing keenly about him on all sides of the little clearing in
the midst of which he stood, the boy's eyes lighted with a gleam
of satisfaction on a largish rock. He lifted this up, adjusted
it to his satisfaction and then picked up a smaller stone. This
he placed on the top of the first and then listened intently.
After a moment of this he then placed beneath the large
underlying rock and at its left side a small stone.
Suddenly he started and gazed back. From the distance, borne
faintly to his ears, came far off boyish shouts and cries.
They rose like the baying of a pack in full cry. Now high, now
low on the hush of the midsummer afternoon.
"They picked the trail all right," he remarked to himself, with a
smile, "maybe I'd better leave another sign."
Stooping he snapped off a small low-growing branch and broke it
near the end so that its top hung limply down.
"Two signs now that this is the trail," he resumed as he stuck it
in the ground beside the stone sign. "Now I'd better be off, for
they are picking my tracks up, fast."
He darted off into the undergrowth on the opposite side of the
clearing, vanishing as suddenly and noiselessly as he had
appeared.
A few seconds later the deserted clearing was invaded by a
scouting party of ten lads ranging in years from twelve to
sixteen. They were all attired in similar uniforms to the
leader, whom they were tracing, with but one exception they wore
their "Be Prepared" badges on the left arm above the elbow. Some
of them were only entitled to affix the motto part of the badge
the scroll inscribed with the motto. These latter were the
second-class scouts of the Eagle Patrol. The exception to the
badge-bearers was a tall, well-knit lad with a sunny face and
wavy, brown hair. His badge was worn on the left arm, as were
the others, but it had a strip of white braid sewn beneath it.
This indicated that the bearer was the corporal of the patrol.
As the group of flushed, panting lads emerged into the sandy
space the corporal looked sharply about him. Almost at once his
eye encountered the "spoor" left by the preceding lad.
"Here's the trail, boys," he shouted, "and to judge by the fresh
look of the break in this branch it can't have been placed here
very long. The small stone by the large one means to the left.
We'll run Rob Blake down before long for all his skill if we have
good luck."
"Say, Corporal Merritt," exclaimed a perspiring lad, whose "too,
too solid flesh" seemed to be melting and running off his face in
the form of streaming moisture, "don't we get a rest?"
A general laugh greeted poor Bob or Tubby Hopkins' remark.
"I always told you, Tubby, you were too fat to make a good
scout," laughed Corporal Merritt Crawford, "this is the sort of
thing that will make you want to take some of that tubbiness off
you."
"Say, Tubby, you look like a roll of butter at an August picnic,"
laughed Simon Jeffords, one of the second-class scouts.
"All right, Sim," testily rejoined the aggrieved fat one, "I
notice at that, though, that I am a regular scout while you are
only a rookie."
"Come on, cut out the conversation," exclaimed Corporal Crawford
hastily, "while we are fussing about here, Rob Blake must be
halfway home."
With a groan of comical despair from poor Tubby, the Boy Scouts
darted forward once more. On and on they pushed across country,
skillfully tracking their leader by the various signs they had
been taught to know and of which the present scouting expedition
was a test.
Their young leader evidently intended them to use their eyes to
the utmost for, beside the stone signs, he used blaze-marks, cut
on the trees with his hunting knife. For instance, at one place
they would find a square bit of bark removed, with a long slice
to the left of it. This indicated that their quarry had doubled
to the left. The slice to the right of the square blaze
indicated the reverse.
Suddenly Corporal Crawford held up his hand as a signal for
silence. The scouts came to an abrupt stop.
From what seemed to be only a short distance in front of them
they could hear a voice upraised apparently in anger. Replying
to it were the tones of their leader.
"Seems to be trouble ahead of some kind," exclaimed Crawford.
"Come on, boys."
They all advanced close on his heels--guided by the sound of the
angry voice, which did not diminish in tone but apparently waxed
more and more furious as they drew nearer. Presently the
woodland thinned and the ground became dotted with stumps of
felled timber and in a few paces more they emerged on a small
peach orchard at the edge of which stood Rob Blake and a larger
and older boy. As Crawford and his followers came upon the scene
the elder lad, who seemed beside himself with rage, picked up a
large rock and was about to hurl it with all his might at Rob
when the young corporal dashed forward and held his hand up to
stay him.
"Here, what's all this trouble?" he demanded.
"You just keep out of it, Merritt Crawford," said the elder lad,
a hulking, thick-set youth with a mean look on his heavy
features. "I'm just reading this kid here a lesson. This
orchard is my father's and mine and you'll keep out of it in
future or suffer the consequences, understand?"
"Why, we aren't doing any harm," protested Rob Blake heatedly.
"I don't care what you are doing or not doing," retorted the
other, "this is my father's orchard and you'll keep off it. You
and the rest of you tin soldiers. I don't want you stealing our
peaches."
"I guess you are sore, Jack Curtiss, because you couldn't get a
boy scout patrol of your own! I guess that's what the trouble
is," remarked Tubby Hopkins softly, but with a meaning look at
the big lad.
"You impudent little whipper-snapper," roared Jack Curtiss, "if
you weren't such a shrimp I'd lick you for that remark, but
you're all beneath my notice. All I want to say to you is keep
away from my orchard or I'll give you a trimming."
"Suppose you start now," said Rob Blake quietly, "if you are so
anxious to show what a scrapper you are."
"Bah, I don't want anything to do with you, I tell you," rejoined
Curtiss, turning away, with a rather troubled expression,
however, for while he was a bully the big lad had no particular
liking for a fight unless he was pretty sure that all the
advantage lay on his side.
"It was too bad you didn't get that patrol of yours, Jack,"
called the irrepressible Tubby after him as the big youth strode
off across the orchard toward the old-fashioned farmhouse in
which he lived with his father, a well-to-do farmer. "Never
mind; better luck next time," he went on, "or maybe we'll let you
into ours some time."
"You just wait," roared the retreating bully, shaking his fist at
the lads, "I'll make trouble for you yet."
"Well," remarked Rob Blake, as Jack Curtiss strode off, "I guess
the run is over for to-day. Too bad we should have come out on
his land. Of course he feels sore at us; and I shouldn't wonder
but he will really try to do us some mischief if he gets a
chance."
As it was growing late and there did not seem much chance of
restarting the "Follow the Trail" practice, that day at least,
the boys strolled back through the woodland and soon emerged on a
country road about three miles from Hampton Inlet, where they
lived.
While they are covering the distance perhaps the reader may care
to know something about the cause of the enmity which Jack
Curtiss entertained toward the lads of the Eagle Patrol. It had
its beginning several months before when the boys of Hampton
Inlet began to discuss forming a patrol of boy scouts. They all
attended the Hampton Academy, and naturally the news that Rob
Blake was going to try to organize a patrol soon spread through
the school.
Jack Curtiss, as soon as he heard what Rob--whom he considered
more or less a rival of his--intended doing he also forwarded an
application to the headquarters of the organization in New York.
As Rob Blake's had been received first, however, and on
investigation he was shown to be a likely lad for the leader, he
was appointed and at once began the enrollment of his scouts.
The bully was furious when he realized that he would be unable to
secure an authorized patrol, and he and his cronies, two lads
about his own age named Bill Bender and Sam Redding, had been
busy ever since devising schemes to "get even" as they called
it. None of these, however, had been effective and the encounter
of that day was the first chance Jack had had to work off any of
his rancor on Rob Blake's patrol.
Young Blake was the only son of Mr. Albert Blake, the president
of the local bank. His corporal, Merritt Crawford, was the
eldest of the numerous family of Jared Crawford, the blacksmith
and wheelwright of the little town, and Tubby Hopkins was the
offspring of Mrs. Hopkins--a widow in comfortable circumstances.
The other lads of the Patrol whom we shall meet as the story of
their doings and adventures progresses were all natives of the
town, which was situated on the south shore of Long Island--as
has been said--and on an inlet which led out to the Atlantic
itself.
The scouts trudged back into Hampton just at twilight and made
their way at once to their armory--as they called it--which was
situated In a large room above the bank of which Rob's father was
president. At one side of it was a row of lockers and each lad--after
changing his uniform for street clothes--placed his "regimentals"
in these receptacles.
This done the lads broke up and started for their various homes.
Rob and his young corporal left the armory together, after
locking the door and descending the stairs which led onto a side
street.
"I wonder if that fellow Curtiss means to carry out his threat of
getting even?" said Crawford as they made their way down the
street arm in arm, for their homes were not far apart and both on
Main Street.
"He's mean enough to attempt anything," rejoined Rob, "but I
don't think he's got nerve enough to carry out any of his
schemes. Hullo!" he broke off suddenly, "there he is now across
the street by the post office, talking to Bill Bender and Sam
Redding. I'll bet they are hatching up some sort of mischief.
Just look at them looking at us. I'll bet a doughnut they were
talking about us."
"Shouldn't wonder," agreed his companion. "By the way, I've got
to go and see if there is any mail. Come on over."
The two lads crossed the street and as they entered the post
office, although neither of them had much use for either of the
bullies' two chums, they nodded to them pleasantly.
"You kids think you're pretty fine with your Eagle Patrol or
whatever you call it, don't you," sneered Bill Bender, as they
walked by. "I'll bet the smell of a little real powder would
make your whole regiment run to cover."
"Don't pay any attention to him," whispered the young corporal to
Rob, who doubled up his fists and flushed angrily at the sneering
tone Jack Curtiss' friend had adopted.
Rob restrained his anger with an effort, and by the time they
emerged from the post office the trio of worthies--who, as Rob
had rightly guessed, had been discussing them--had moved on up
the street.
"I had trouble with those kids myself this afternoon," remarked
Jack Curtiss with a scowl, as they wended their way toward a shed
in the rear of Bill Bender's home, which had been fitted tip as a
sort of clubroom.
"What did they do to you?" incautiously inquired Sam Redding, a
youth as big as the other two, but not so powerful. In fact he
was used more or less as a tool by them.
"Do to me," roared the bully, "what did I do to them, you mean."
"Well what did you do to them then?" asked Bill Bender, as they
entered the clubroom before referred to and he produced some
cigarettes, which all three had been strictly forbidden to smoke.
"Chased them off my land," rejoined the other, lighting a paper
roll and blowing out a cloud of smoke, "you should have seen them
run. If they want to play their fool games they've got to do it
on the property of folks who'll let them. They can't come on my
land."
"You mean your father's, don't you?" put in the unlucky Sam
Redding.
"Sam, you've got a head like a billiard ball," retorted the
bully, turning on the other, "it'll be mine some day, won't it?
Therefore it's as good as mine now."
Although he didn't quite see the logic of the foregoing, Sam
Redding gave a sage nod and agreed that his leader was right.
"Yes, those kids need a good lesson from somebody," chimed in
Bill Bender.
"I think we had better be the 'somebodies' to give it to them,"
rejoined Jack Curtiss. "They are getting insufferable. They
actually twitted me this afternoon with being sore at them
because I didn't get my patrol--as if I really wanted one. That
Blake kid is the worst of the bunch. Just because his father has
a little money he gives himself all kinds of airs. My father is
as rich as his, even if he isn't a banker."
"I've been thinking of a good trick we can put up on them, but it
will take some nerve to carry it out," announced Bill Bender,
after some more discussion of the lads of the Eagle Patrol.
"Out with it, then," urged the bully, "what is it?"
In a lowered tone Bill Bender sketched out his scheme in detail,
while Jack and Sam nodded their approval. At length he ceased
talking and the other two broke out into a delighted laugh, in
which malice as much as merriment prevailed.
"It's the very thing," exclaimed Jack. "Bill, you're a genius.
We'll do it as soon as possible. If that doesn't take some
starch out of those tin soldiers nothing will."
Half an hour later the three cronies parted for the night. Sam
went to his home near the waterfront, for his father was a boat
builder, and Jack started to walk the three miles to his father's
farm in the moonlight. His way took him by the bank. As he
passed it he gazed up at the windows of the armory on which was
lettered in gilt: "Eagle Patrol of the Boy Scouts of America."
"That's a slick idea of Bill's," said the bully to himself, "I
can hardly wait till we get a chance to carry it out."
CHAPTER II
A CRUISE TO THE ISLAND
"Whatever are you doing, Rob?"
It was the morning after the consultation of Jack Curtiss and his
cronies, and Corporal Crawford was looking over the fence into
his leader's yard.
Rob was bending over a curious-looking apparatus, consisting of a
bent stick held in a bow-shape by a taut leather thong. The
appliance was twisted about an upright piece of wood sharpened at
one end--which was rotated as the lad ran the bow back and forth
across it.
Presently smoke began to rise from the flat piece of timber into
which the point of the upright stick had been boring and
depositing sawdust, and Rob, by industriously blowing at the
accumulation, presently caused it to burst into flame.
"There I've done it," he exclaimed triumphantly, arising with a
flushed face from his labors.
"Done what?" inquired young Crawford interestedly.
"Made fire in the Indian way," replied Rob triumphantly.
"I thought they made it by rubbing two sticks together."
"Only book Indians do that," replied Rob, "I'll tell you it took
me a time to get the hang of it, but I've got it now."
"It's quite a stunt, all right," commented the corporal
admiringly.
"You bet, and it's useful, too," replied Rob. "I'll put the bow
and drill in my pocket, and then any time we get stuck for
matches we'll have no trouble in making a signal smoke or
lighting cooking fires."
"Say, I've got some news for you," went on young Crawford, "did
you know that Sam Redding has entered that freak motor boat he's
been building in the yacht club regatta? He's out for the club
trophy."
"No, is he, though?" exclaimed Rob, keenly interested. "Then
the crew and skipper of the Flying Fish will have to look alive.
I know that Sam's father helped him out with that boat and put a
lot of new wrinkles in it. I didn't think, though, he'd have it
ready in time for the races."
The boys referred to the coming motor-boat races which were to
take place shortly on the inlet at Hampton. Like most of the
other lads in the seashore town, Merritt and Rob had a lot of
experience on the water and some time before had built a speedy
motor boat from knock-down frames. The Flying Fish, as they
called her, was entered for the main event referred to, the
prize for which was a silver cup, donated by the merchants of
the town. There were several other entries in the race, but Rob
and his crew, consisting of Merritt and Tubby Hopkins,
confidently expected the Flying Fish to easily lead them all.
"I wonder if the Sam Redding can show her stern to the Flying
Fish?" mused Rob. "I'd like to lake a good look at her."
"Let's go down to Redding's boat yard," suggested Merritt;
"she's lying there on the ways. I don't suppose any one would
object to our sizing her up."
Rob hailed the suggestion as a good one.
"We can call in for Tubby on the way," he said, as he darted into
the house after his hat.
The boys dropped in at Tubby's house on their way to the
water-front, and received from the stout youth some additional
details regarding Sam's boat.
"She's a hydroplane," volunteered Tubby, "and Tom Jennings, down
at the yard, says she's as fast as a race horse."
"A hydroplane?--that's one of those craft that cut along the top
of the water like a skimming dish, isn't it?" asked Merritt.
"That's the idea," responded Rob. "They're supposed to be as
speedy as anything afloat in smooth water."
Thus conversing they reached the boat-building yard of Sam
Redding's father and were greeted by Tom Jennings, a big
good-natured ship carpenter. "Hullo, Tom! Can we see that new
boat of Sam's?" inquired Rob,
"Sure, I guess there's no objection," grinned Tom, "come right
this way. There she is, over there by that big winch."
Report had not erred apparently as to the novel qualities of Sam
Redding's speed craft. She was about twenty-five feet long,
narrow and painted black. She was perfectly flat-bottomed, her
underside being deeply notched at frequent intervals. On the
edge of those notches she was supposed to glide over the water
when driven at top speed.
"She certainly looks like a winner," commented Rob, as he gazed
at her clean, slender lines and sharp bow.
"She's got wonderful speed," Tom Jennings confided. "We tried
her out the other night when no one was around. But I don't
think that in rough water she'll be much good."
"No, I'd prefer the Flying Fish for the waters hereabouts,"
agreed Rob, "it's liable to come on rough in a hurry and then a
chap who was out in a dry-goods box, like that thing, would be in
trouble."
"What are you calling a dry-goods box?" demanded an indignant
voice behind them, and turning, the lads saw Sam Redding with a
menacing look on his face. A little way behind him stood Bill
Bender and Jack Curtiss.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Sam," said Rob. "I really admire your
hydroplane very much, and I think it will give us a tussle for
the trophy, all right; but I don't think she'd be much good in
any kind of a sea-way."
"That's my business, you interfering little runt," snapped Sam,
who, with Bill Bender and Jack Curtiss to back him, felt very
brave; though ordinarily he would have avoided trouble with the
young scouts. "What are you doing spying around the yard here,
anyhow?" he went on insolently.
"We are not spying," indignantly burst out Merritt. "We asked
Tom Jennings if we couldn't look at your hydroplane, as we were
naturally interested in her, and he gave us permission."
"Well, he had no business to," growled Sam; "he ought to be
attending to his work instead of showing a lot of nosy young cubs
my new boat."
"They are capable of stealing your ideas," chimed in Jack
Curtiss, "and putting them on their own boat."
"That's ridiculous," laughed Rob, "as I said I wouldn't want to
have anything to do with such a contrivance except on a lake or a
river."
"Well, you keep your advice and your ideas to yourself, and get
out of this yard!" roared Sam, waxing bolder and bolder, and
mistaking Rob's conciliatory manner for cowardice. "I've a good
mind to punch your head."
"Better come on and try it," retorted Rob, preparing for the
immediate onslaught which it seemed reasonable from Sam's manner
to expect.
But it didn't come.
Muttering something about "young cubs," and "keeping the
boat-yard gate locked," Sam turned to his chums and invited them
to come and try out his new motor in the shop.
As the three chums had no desire to "mix it up with Sam on his
own place," as Tubby put it, they left the yard promptly, and
walked on down the water-front to the wharf at which lay the
Flying Fish, the fastest craft in the Hampton Motor Boat Club.
Rob's boat was, to tell the truth, rather broad of beam for a
racer and drew quite a little water. She had a powerful motor
and clean lines, however, and while not primarily designed solely
for "mug-hunting," had beaten everything she had raced with
during the few months since the boys had completed her. The
money for her motor had been given to Rob by his father, who was
quite indulgent to Rob in money matters, having noticed that the
lad always expended the sums given him wisely.
"Let's take a spin," suddenly suggested Tubby.
"Nothing to prevent us," answered Rob; "we've got plenty of time
before dinner. Come on, boys."
The lads were soon on board and examining the gasoline tank, to
see how much fuel they had on hand, and oiling up the engine.
The fuel receptacle proved to be almost full, so after filling
the lubricant cups and attending to the batteries, they started
up the engine--a powerful, three cylindered, twelve-horse affair
capable of driving the twenty-two foot Flying Fish through the
water at twelve miles an hour or better.
Just as Rob was casting off the head-line there came a hail from
the wharf above them.
"Ahoy, there, shipmates! Where are yer bound fer this fine,
sunny day?"
The lads looked up to see the weather-beaten countenance of
Captain Job Hudgins, one of the characters of the vicinity. He
was a former whaler, and lived on a small island some distance
from Hampton. On his little territory he fished and grew a few
vegetables, "trading in" his produce at the Hampton grocery
stores for his simple wants. He, however, had a pension, and was
supposed to have a "snug little fortune" laid by. His only
companion in his island solitude was it big Newfoundland dog
named "Skipper."
The animal stood beside its master on the dock and wagged its
tail at the sight of the boys, whom it knew quite well from their
frequent visits to the captain's little island.
"Hullo, captain!" shouted Rob, as the veteran saluted his three
young friends. "Where's your boat?"
"Oh, her engine went--busted, and I had to leave her at the yard
below fer repairs," explained the captain. "I wonder if yer boys
can give me a lift back if yer goin' near Topsail Island?"
"Surest thing you know," rejoined Rob hastily. "Come right
aboard. But how are you going to get off your island again if
your motor is laid up here to be fixed?"
"Oh, I'll use my rowboat," responded the old mariner, clambering
down into the Flying Fish. "Say, this is quite a right smart
contraption, ain't she?"
"We think she is a pretty good little boat," modestly replied
Rob, taking his place at the wheel. "Now, then, Merritt, start
up that engine."
"Hold on a minute!" shouted Tubby. "We forgot the dog."
Sure enough, Skipper was dashing up and down the wharf in great
distress at the prospect of being deserted.
"Put yer boat alongside that landin' stage at the end of the
wharf," suggested his master. "Skipper can get aboard from
there, I reckon."
Rob steered the Flying Fish round to the floating landing, to
which an inclined runway led from the wharf. Skipper dashed down
it as soon as he saw what was happening, and was waiting, ready
to embark, when the Flying Fish came alongside.
"Poor old Skipper, I reckon yer thought we was goin' ter maroon
yer," said Captain Job, as the animal jumped on board with a bark
of "thanks" for his rescue. "I tell yer, boys, I wouldn't lose
that dog fer all the money in Rob's father's bank. He keeps
good watch out an the Island, I'll tell yer."
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