When Scout Meets Scout or, The Aeroplane Spy
The Aeroplane Boys Series
When Scout Meets Scout
The Aeroplane Spy
Aeroplane Boys Series
By ASHTON LAMAR
- IN THE CLOUDS FOR UNCLE SAM
Or, Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps
- THE STOLEN AEROPLANE
Or, How Bud Wilson Made Good
- THE AEROPLANE EXPRESS
Or, The Boy Aeronaut’s Grit
- THE BOY AERONAUTS’ CLUB
Or, Flying for Fun
- A CRUISE IN THE SKY
Or, The Legend of the Great Pink Pearl
- BATTLING THE BIGHORN
Or, The Aeroplane in the Rockies
- WHEN SCOUT MEETS SCOUT
Or, The Aeroplane Spy
FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS IN EACH BOOK
Price, 60 Cents
Publishers The Reilly & Britton Co. Chicago
Scout Meets Scout
The Aeroplane Spy
Illustrated by S. H. Riesenberg
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WHEN SCOUT MEETS SCOUT
|I||A Storm Cloud Gathers||9|
|II||An Emissary from the Enemy||22|
|III||The Battle at the Old Sycamore||35|
|IV||The Bitter Fruits of Defeat||49|
|V||Mr. Trevor’s Mysterious Invitation||61|
|VI||What Came Out of a Tea Party||73|
|VII||Arthur’s Deal with a Circus Hand||88|
|VIII||An Afternoon at the Circus||102|
|IX||The Circus Loses Its Aviator||118|
|X||The Boy Scouts’ First Salute||133|
|XI||The “Coyotes” Invade Elm Street||147|
|XII||The Cask in the River||161|
|XIV||Marshal Walter Makes a Capture at Last||189|
|XV||Goosetown’s Prodigal Sons||202|
|XVI||When Scout Meets Scout||216|
|XVII||The Aeroplane Spy||232|
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
|The Capture of the Tiger||Frontispiece|
|Playing at War||92|
|The Mysterious Cask||164|
|Signaling the “Aeroplane Spy”||244|
When Scout Meets Scout
The Aeroplane Spy
A STORM CLOUD GATHERS
When Arthur Trevor caught the flying machinefever and organized the “Young Aviators,”neither he nor the other boys who joinedthe club meant to do anything but make toyaeroplanes. There was certainly no reason forthem to foresee that their first tournament wasto turn the young aviators into Boy Scouts, andin the end, into real Boy Scout Aviators owninga practical aeroplane. But there were signsfrom the first that the “Goosetown gang”was going to make trouble for the “Elm Streetboys.” The beginning of everything and theclash between the “Goosetown gang” and the“Elm Street boys” was in this wise:
Arthur Trevor’s father was a lawyer. Likethe parents of most of Art’s companions, helived in the best part of Scottsville. Here, onElm Street, the trees were large; the residenceswere of brick, with wide porches; gardenerssaw to the lawns, and nearly every home had anew automobile garage. Therefore, the boysliving here—although they thought themselvesneither better nor worse than other boys—wereusually known as the “Swells” or the“Elm Street boys.” As a matter of fact theywere just as freckled of face, as much opposedto “dressing up,” as full of boy ambitions andwith nicknames just as outlandish as anyGoosetown kid.
But the Goosetown boys did not take thatview of things. In Goosetown there were noautomobiles. Houses were decorated with“lady finger” vines. While there were manygardens, these were devoted mainly to cabbagesand tomatoes. If the lads living here had takenmore interest in their homes and less in playinghooky they might have felt less bitter towardtheir supposed rivals. They came to understandthis in time, too, but this was not untilthe Boy Scout movement swept through Scottsville.
Although the two crowds did not mix, andseldom came in contact, in some mysteriousboy way each contrived to keep well advised ofthe doings of the other. For instance, ArtTrevor, Frank Ware, Sam Addington and ColfaxCraighead, although busy making aeroplanesin the loft of the Trevor garage, wereable to discuss the latest Goosetown gossip—howthe gang playing cards under the big sycamorebeyond the railroad bridge had quarreledwith Nick Apthorp because he broke a bottle ofbeer, and had ducked him below the river dam.This news had become gossip because Nick’shead had come in contact with a submerged logand he had been rescued barely in time to escapedrowning.
On the other hand, the latest bit of newsfrom Elm Street to reach Goosetown createda real sensation. Nick Apthorp, who had astonishedhis Goosetown gang-mates by violatingprecedent and doing several hours’ actualwork (he had accepted an afternoon’s job ofdistributing free samples of soap in the ElmStreet district) was partly excused by his associateswhen he turned over to them a hand-printedcircular. This he had stolen from thedoor of the Trevor garage. With the circularand some of the perfumed soap that had beenentrusted to him, of which he had appropriatedhalf, 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. “Agran’ show free gratis fur nothin’. Don’t fergitthe day an’ date!”
“They must be achin’ fur trouble,” suggestedHenry or “Hank” Milleson. “Ireckon if we went over to Elm Street fur a littlegame o’ poker they’d put the police on us.And fur them swells to be a-plannin’ to comeover to Sycamore Pasture” (Hank called it“paster”) “to pull off a toy airyplane show,don’t mean nothin’ but defyin’ us. Ever’ oneof ’em, from little Artie Trevor down to ColdslawBighead knows that. But say, kiddos,”went on Hank as he paused in the shuffling of adeck of greasy cards, for several of the gangwere whiling away the sleepy June afternoonin the shade of the same big sycamore, “I gota hunch. Them kids are wise. They’re on.They ain’t comin’ over here ’less they’re fixedfur trouble. I’ll bet you they got somethin’ uptheir sleeves. An’ I’ll say this: Artie an’ hisfriends ain’t no milksops, ef they do run tomakin’ toys. They ain’t got no right to comehere a-buttin’ in, but ef they do, an’ it comes toa show-down who’s boss, an’ I got anything todo with the dispute, I ain’t a-goin’ to figure onputtin’ anybody down fur the count by tappin’him on the wrist.”
“It’d be a crime to do it,” sneered JimmyCompton, whose only activity, aside from flippingtrains and fishing occasionally, was thecollection and delivery of linen that his widowedmother washed. “I’ll show you what Ithink o’ them swells when I meet ’em. Meanwhile,here’s my sentiments.”
As he spoke, Jimmy turned from the card-playinggroup squatted on the grass, and withoutrising, took from his mouth a quid of tobaccoand contemptuously flung it at the near-bysycamore. There it squashed against the circularthat Nick Apthorp had stolen from Trevor’sgarage. This, in derision, had been hungagainst the tree trunk.
The poster, the cause of the gang’s resentfulcomment, made this announcement:
First Monthly Tournament
Young Aviators Club
Toy Aeroplane Flying For
Distance and Altitude,
Sycamore Tree Pasture,
Saturday 2 P. M. Prizes.
Arthur Trevor, President.
Jim Compton’s moist quid, for which he hadnow substituted a cigarette borrowed fromMatt 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’ collecta black eye ur a punched nose from ever’one ’at can’t give me the high sign.”
“Well,” snorted Hank Milleson, resumingthe shuffling of the dog-eared cards. “All I gotto say is: ‘Look out fur your change.’ Someof them guys may be shifty with their mitts.Take little Artie himself! When a kid can doa high-jump o’ nearly five feet he might behandy with his fists too.”
“I’ll jump him in the drink,” sneeredCompton lazily, as he nodded toward the sleepyGreen River flowing near by. “An’ I’ll takemama’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. Theywon’t be no time to fergit. We all heered whatyou said.”
“Mebbe you think I can’t!” retorted Comptonas he shot a volume of cigarette smokethrough his sun-blistered nose, and straightenedhimself.
“Sure you kin. You kin always tell whatyou’re a-going to do. Go on. Blow yourselfup with brag.”
“Cheese it, kids. Cut it out! Don’t startnothin’,” shouted Mart Clare. “Come on,I’ve got a good hand.”
Jimmy glared at Hank but he seemed gladenough to drop the argument.
“If you think I’m braggin’, wait till Saturday,”was his only response.
“I will,” answered Hank with a new chuckleas he finished the deal of the cards. “But takeit from me, Jimmy, when you start little Artiea-jumpin, get out from under. Don’t let himcome down on top o’ you.”
“Come off—come off,” yawned Nick Apthorpas he threw his cards towards the nextdealer and reached for a string attached to arotten log against which he had been leaning.“Mebbe this’ll stop the rag chewin’,” and heproceeded to pull on the string, which extendedover the edge of the river bank, at the base ofwhich was the gang’s swimming hole, intowhich Jimmy had threatened to make ArtTrevor jump.
As a bottle of beer came in sight all animositiesseemed forgotten. Hank Milleson grabbedan empty lard pail. Nick knocked off the topof the bottle on a stone and the lukewarm fluidwas emptied into the pail.
“Fair divvies now,” shouted Compton, andthe five young loafers crowded about the foam-crustedpail like flies around a molasses jug.In such manner, with few variations, the“Goosetown gang” was accustomed to passits afternoons.
Others who were accustomed to meet at timesto play cards, drink beer and drowse away thehours came only on Saturdays and Sundays.Some of these had light employment in the furniturefactories. Like Nick Apthorp, MattBranson, Mart Clare, Jimmy Compton andHank Milleson they had grown up withoutschooling, and they knew few pleasures exceptthose of the young “tough.”
Had the roster of the “Goosetown gang”ever been written, its prominent memberswould have been in addition to those named,Job Wilkes, Joe Andrews, Buck Bluett, TomBates, Pete Chester and Tony Cooper. Of allthese the foremost loafer was Hank Milleson.And Hank had a double distinction; he had alreadybeen a prisoner in the Scottsville lock-up,for disturbing the peace while intoxicated. Atthat, he was but seventeen years old. Of theothers some were not over twelve years.
Before dark that evening, news of whatJimmy Compton had done reached Elm Street.Sammy Addington was the one who broughtthe bulletin to the Trevor Garage.
“Jim Compton—Carrots—” reportedSammy, his eyes sparkling, “says he’s goin’ tomake you jump in the river,” addressing ArtTrevor, 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 pinchedour sign—him and Blowhard Compton an’ thegang all give it out—an’ they stuck our signup on the ole sycamore an’ spit on it; yes that’swhat