CHAPTER XVIII SERGEANT MARSHALL OUTWITS MAJOR CAREY

The maneuvers continued with daily flights. In a short time Morey was, by common consent, conceded to be the foremost in the work. He held the record for the most exact work in the handling of explosives and had flown the highest. Sergeant McLean made the longest continuous flight—the length of Long Island and return.

The promised promotion to a sergeancy came at the end of the first week of experimenting. In his new stripes the boy had visible proof that the “foolish boy” had really made progress in his effort to accomplish something. Then, one morning came a shock. He received a letter from his mother.

No sooner had Lieutenant Purcell left the Green Spring’s camp than Amos disappeared. As he was not a soldier, little attention was given his departure. Reaching Aspley Place after a footsore tramp, the black boy was received with open arms. Even his father, old Marsh Green, agreed to refrain from administering the “hiding” he had promised. As Amos related to Morey’s mother the wonders he had seen and the exploits of the yet missing white boy his imagination ran riot. Old Don Quixote never shone with the glamor of romance that the black boy created for Morey. Mrs. Marshall was in despair. And other things had now arisen that made her son’s absence doubly trying.

Amos had no idea where Morey had gone. But Mrs. Marshall’s letter of appeal to her son was forwarded to Green Springs in care of Lieutenant Purcell and from that place it was forwarded to the station at Arlington. When Morey read it he was in despair.

“My dear Morey,” it ran. “How can I say what your absence has been to me! Amos has told us all. I am heartbroken that you did not return with him. I thought you were in school at Washington. He tells me you are a soldier. Twice I have written to you in Washington and each time my letter has come back. You must come to me at once. Mr. Bradner has told me all. I cannot understand it, but he says we must give up our home; that Major Carey and Captain Barber are arranging to get for us a new home in the village. This cannot be necessary, but he says I must. It is something about money that your father owed. Now they say we can no longer live on Aspley Place. Major Carey has been to see me. He says it is true; that some one in Richmond insists on having money that I cannot pay. He has selected a little cottage where we must live—but I cannot write of it. Won’t you come home and help me?”

The glory of his success in the corps seemed very small to Morey then. When he thought over what had happened in the last few weeks he could only reproach himself with the thought that he had deserted his mother. He at once sought out Major Squiers. To him he told his story.

“May I go home for a few days?” he pleaded. “I know now that I did wrong to enlist. But I’ve got to go home and see what I can do.”

“I’ll give you leave of absence for a week,” answered his superior sympathetically. “If, at the end of that time you want more leave let me know and I’ll grant it. But you did not do wrong. You are going to be a credit to yourself and to your mother.”

“I’m going to Washington,” said Morey tremulously. “If nothing can be done there I’ll go home. With what I know I’ll confront the men who are trying to rob us. I’m sure I’m enough older now to accomplish something.”

“You must,” replied Major Squiers, “for I have counted on you in my summer plans. You have become valuable to us. Arrange to rejoin the corps by the first of August—you cannot afford to miss what I have arranged for you.”

At three o’clock that afternoon the disconsolate boy was in Washington on his way home on a leave of absence. Hastening to the office of the real estate firm he met the manager just leaving for the day.

“I meant to write to you in the morning,” began the busy dealer with unusual condescension. “I have a proposition to make to you and your mother. Jump in my car! I’m going out for a little ride. We’ll talk it over in the automobile.”

Morey’s heart leaped.

“I’ll be perfectly frank with you,” said the manager, “and what I have to say is based on the assumption that you represent your mother.”

“I think you can do that, sir,” replied Morey. “She has not authorized me to act for her, but our necessities are such that I must compel her to listen to reason.”

“Well,” began the agent, “we have had a man in your part of the country and he has just returned. It was not difficult to find that the Barber Bank is preparing to secure your land. We are like the Barber Bank, in a way. We are here to make money where and when we can. The land is ample security for the loan you ask.”

“And you’ll let me have it?” exclaimed Morey.

The manager shook his head.

The lad’s heart sank.

“What we will do is this: Major Carey wants your land, that is plain. I think, too, he’ll pay forty dollars an acre for it when he sees he has to. My proposition is this: we’ll take up your notes—your father’s and your mother’s—and, if your mother will make such a contract, carry them until we can sell the property. As our profit we will take one-half the selling price over the amount we invest. That will be something over $14,000. If we sell the farm of six hundred acres at forty dollars there will be a balance of $10,000 over what we put in the deal. That will mean $5,000 for your mother and $5,000 for us.”

Morey finally understood, then he too shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said. “I reckon your offer is fair enough but I can’t let the home farm go. That’s what I’m working for. There are one hundred and sixty acres around our home that I want to keep—that I must save. You know the place. There are four hundred and forty acres besides this. If you’ll pay those notes I’ll undertake to see that my mother gives you a deed to all this.”

“I don’t see that it makes much difference,” said the manager.

“It makes all the difference in the world to me. It won’t give us any money but it will give us a home. And I’ll make a living somehow.”

“I’ll do it. Your friends in the Barber Bank are sharks. I like to take a fall out of those country wise ones occasionally.”

“Mr. Tuttle,” said Morey, after a few moments, “that’s business and no favor on either side. I’m going to ask a personal favor. I’m too young to ask it legally but on what you know of me will you lend me $100.”

The manager smiled.

“Our investment company would not think of such a thing. But we are not in the office just now. Your note wouldn’t be good, but your face is.” He reached in his pocket, took out a wallet, counted out five twenty-dollar bills and then laid on them his personal card, J. D. Tuttle. “When you can do so, send it to me. Haven’t you any funds?”

“Enough to get home,” responded Morey, “but I’m going to pay a fine with part of that and keep out of jail.”

“A fine? For what?”

“I bumped old Judge Lomax, in our town, on the floor because he said our place wasn’t worth twenty dollars an acre.”

“Whew!” laughed the manager. “I’m glad I valued it higher.”

Arrangements were soon concluded. When Morey left for Lee’s Court House in the morning an agent of the investment company was with him. They reached the little Rappahannock County town at about eleven o’clock. One of Marshal Robertson’s self-imposed duties was to conscientiously attend the arrival of each train. The marshal was dutifully on the platform.

“Do you want me?” asked Morey, hurrying up to the guardian of the peace.

The boy’s natty uniform, his new cap and his sergeant’s stripes seemed to overpower the town official.

“Fur poundin’ up Jedge Lomax?” he stammered at last.

“You can call it that,” laughed Morey, “although I didn’t.”

“Fur land’s sakes, Morey, where ha’ ye abeen? That’s all settled long ago. I reckon your mother must a’ got Major Carey to see Jedge Lomax. Anyhow the warrant is withdrew.”

That was what had happened. As soon as Mrs. Marshall had heard of the difficulty she had hurried to her friends, Captain Barber and Major Carey. Through them the disgruntled Lomax—who never had been near to dying—had been unable to resist feminine appeals, particularly when Major Carey added his request to that of Morey’s mother.

“Well,” said Morey with decision, “I think that is a good thing—for Judge Lomax. I was just about to swear out a warrant for his arrest. I’ll wait now until I hear more from him.”

The investment company’s representative was a young lawyer. Morey’s mother had no telephone in her house. So within a few minutes the town livery man had two horses hitched to an ancient hack and by noon Morey and the agent were at Aspley Place.

For half an hour Morey was alone with his mother in her bedroom. In the end she was reconciled. Morey did not attempt to make her realize all that he had come to know.

“I’ll never believe it of Major Carey,” she kept repeating.

“That’s all right, mater,” Morey answered at last. “Think as you like. But I’m a man now. All you have to do is to sign the contract. I’ll see that you keep Aspley Place. And, if I have good luck, I’ll see that we make our own butter again.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t what your father would have liked.”

“Father lived when things were different. Everything has changed. I’m changed.”

By mid-afternoon Morey and the agent were in Major Carey’s office. The news of Morey’s return had spread quickly. The dignified planter-banker was not at his ease. He began the interview by mildly censuring the boy for his sudden leave-taking. Then he seemed to desire to mend matters a little by explaining how he had adjusted the trouble with Judge Lomax. Morey heard him impatiently and then came to the point.

“I suppose you remember what I said to you the last time I saw you?” began Morey.

“You were not wholly in command of yourself,” replied Major Carey, condescendingly.

“I told you when I entered your office again that I’d be here to settle with you. I’m ready.”

“To settle with me?”

“With you, Captain Barber, Mr. Bradner, the bank, or any one else that has a claim against my mother.”

“Morey, what does this mean?”

“It means that you folks think you own this town and all the people in it. You do, too, pretty much—except us. Produce your statement of every cent we owe you. I want the notes and have the money to square up.”

“Mr. Betts,” said Major Carey, nervously, “does this boy know what he is talking about?”

“Looks like it?” laughed the young lawyer, taking a blue envelope from his pocket in which the Virginian could not fail to note an ample supply of currency. “We were afraid the Barber Bank might not like the looks of our check.”

Major Carey, red in the face and thick of speech, sprang to his feet.

“This is a bluff,” he exclaimed. “What are you trying to do?”

“Not trying,” said Morey in turn, and himself white about the mouth. “I’m just taking up my mother’s obligations. Then her farm will be clear and free from debt.”

The planter sank back in his chair.

“You should have talked to me about this, Morey. I’d have bought that land from you.”

“You can get it yet,” smiled Morey. “It’ll be on the market in a few days. The price is fifty dollars an acre, cash.”

Major Carey was upset. He retired to the bank below and returned in a few moments with Mr. Bradner, his son-in-law. But the latter was equally disturbed. There was nothing to do but produce the notes and prepare a statement. The moment this was ready Morey interrupted the proceedings again.

“Are you ready to make your settlement for the rent of the corn land, Major Carey?”

This was a bombshell. There were futile and foolish arguments about “favor to Mrs. Marshall to prevent the place going to weeds,” “high taxes,” “fence repairs,” and “poor crops.”

“Take ’em all out,” retorted Morey, sharply. “I only want what is ours.”

Major Carey had to beg for time until morning to consult his receipts and farm books. Another meeting was arranged for the next day at ten o’clock.

At that time, taking his own unquestioned figures and allowing him half the crops for two years—deducting forty acres of waste land and an array of expenses that made Mr. Betts smile, Major Carey was compelled to concede that there was a surplus of $4,160 to be divided.

Morey’s pencil was out.

“We owe you,” he said sharply, “$14,092.50. You owe us $2,080. The difference is $12,012.50. Here’s your money.”

The disconcerted planter sat for a spell as if in a trance.

“How about this year’s corn crop?” he murmured at last.

“I am now interested in this property Major Carey,” explained the agent. “Since you have put in a crop without even the formality of renting the ground you will certainly lose it.”

By night the transaction was closed and Mr. Betts left on the evening train. He had turned over $2,080, the corn land rental to Mrs. Marshall and Morey had taken from it a hundred dollars to be paid to Mr. Tuttle in Washington.

The next day Morey entered the Barber Bank and deposited his mother’s rental money to her account. Captain Barber treated him with a cold dignity. Almost out of the door the boy turned:

“By the way, Captain Barber. Our land is on the market. If you know any one who wants it they can have it at a bargain, $50 an acre.”

With his mother’s home and one hundred and sixty acres clear of debt, $2,000 in the bank and the possibility of perhaps $3,000 more from the sale of the rest of the farm, Morey at once prepared to return to the Signal Corps. It was almost against his mother’s command, but she finally reluctantly consented. The day before his leave expired he drove their new horse and buggy to Lee’s Court House to secure a man to help Marsh Green in needed work on the place. Amos was with him.

“Marse Morey,” exclaimed the black boy, “dey done say dat yo’ all got plenty money now.”

Morey, his mind on something else, answered:

“I’ve got my pay as a soldier.”

Amos sighed.

“Ain’ dat nuff to pay me mah money what yo’ all loan’ from me?”

Morey laughed and then he grew sober. He had wholly forgotten the one person who had helped him when he most needed assistance.

“What is a banjo worth, Amos?” he asked.

“Ah kin git one fo’ foah dollahs an’ two bits.”

“Here,” exclaimed the white boy, taking a treasured twenty dollar bill from his pocket. “This is for what I borrowed and a banjo and all the cinnamon drops you can eat.”

As Morey entered the bank a little later on some business for his mother, he was overtaken by the station agent and telegraph operator, who was in a state of high excitement and out of breath. The man had a carefully sealed telegram in his hand, but from his face it could be seen that he knew every word of its contents. Major Carey had just come downstairs from his office. He had been making desperate efforts when he met Morey, to reinstate himself in the lad’s good graces.

“Official orders, I reckon?” exclaimed the banker.

Morey read the following:

“Sergeant Mortimer Marshall:

“Department reports favorably. Offers $25,000 outright for secret. Acceptance must be by widow. Congratulations. Report at Fort Meyer August sixth. Detailed on squad leaving for France August eighth to witness French war office aeroplane trials.

“Squiers,
“Major U. S. Signal Corps.”

Morey, excited inwardly, but apparently calm, handed the message to Major Carey.

“Are you going to get all that money from the government?” the latter asked.

“My mother is,” smiled Morey proudly. “It isn’t mine and I don’t want it. I’m satisfied to be just Sergeant Morey Marshall of the Signal Corps.”

[THE END.]

The book you have just read is the first of The Aeroplane Boys Series. The second volume is “The Stolen Aeroplane, or, How Bud Wilson Made Good.” New titles will be added to this series from time to time and can be bought wherever books are sold.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Printer's, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

The Chapter XVI title in the Table of Contents (The Signal Corps in the Mountains) was changed to reflect the title within the contents (The Signal Corps Camp in the Mountains).