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.

“Don’t forget,” exclaimed Connie, “that you’ll have to take your airships if you mean to race ’em. If we have to scrap, we’ll scrap, but, by jickey, don’t start out as if that’s all you’re a-lookin’ for. Why you haven’t even got the Dart,” continued Connie pointing to Sammy Addington who stood by with two of his smallest and oldest machines.

“I ain’t a-goin’ to take no risk,” retorted Sammy. “In case we have to surrender they can have these,” holding up his battered veterans. “But what’s the use o’ takin’ chances on the Dart? I reckon you don’t know she cost seven dollars!”

“That’s givin’ up before you see the enemy,” laughed Connie.

“Go get the Dart,” ordered Trevor instantly. “Be game.”

A suggestion of this sort was all that Sammy needed. At the same time, he felt again of the rock tied in his handkerchief. This boded no good to Nick Apthorp.

One of the routes to reach Sycamore Tree Pasture was by the main street of Scottsville to the north town limits, thence by a rackety, vibrating suspension bridge across Green River to the “pike” that turned east along the river. Another, and a more popular way with all the boys, was by way of the near-by railroad bridge. There was no footway for pedestrians on this, and the walk over the unprotected, open ties was therefore dangerous enough to be alluring.

An additional attraction of the smoky old railroad bridge was that one was apt to meet older acquaintances there, for which reason it was a favorite resort for boys playing hooky. Here, safely concealed on the lower crosspieces or hidden on the stone abutments on the upper side of the bridge, they might smoke forbidden cigarettes in safety. The railroad bridge was in the territory of the “Goosetown gang.” Boldly bearding the lions in their den, the aviators decided to approach the scene of the tournament by this dangerous trail. As usual it was over Alex Conyers’ protest.

“If you’re afraid,” suggested the valiant young president to Connie, “why don’t you get your father’s chauffeur and ride over in the machine?”

“I’m just tellin’ you,” was Connie’s only answer. “But go ahead; I’ll be with you.”

A little before two o’clock ten boys, ranging in age from twelve to sixteen years, the charter members of the Elm Street Young Aviators Club, with President Trevor and Alex Conyers in front, started across the open ties of the railroad bridge.

Green River, hardly more than a succession of pools, lay along the north end of Scottsville. The much discussed pasture was a smooth and closely cropped stretch of land extending from the north end of the bridge to the old milldam a quarter of a mile to the west.

One glance through the open ironwork of the bridge told the approaching cohort that the enemy was ahead of them. Only a few hundred yards from the bridge, on a bank slightly elevated above the river, stood the big sycamore, the remaining monarch of many others that had fallen and had been carried away for firewood. Beneath its far-stretching arms lounged a group of boys.

“How many?” asked Art of Connie.

“Six or seven,” was Connie’s reply. “But don’t worry. The day’s young.”

“We’ll march straight by ’em,” added Art, “and up to where the pasture is broad and open, ’bout halfway to the dam. Here, fellows,” he went on, facing his followers, “don’t line up that way, two and two like a Sunday School parade. Scatter out. That’s one reason these guys give us the laugh.”

It was difficult to “scatter out” on the narrow railroad track but the boys did it as well as they could. When the center pier of the bridge was reached Art and Connie came to a sudden stop, while the eight boys behind them crowded against them. A freckle-faced lad, broad of shoulder, with a collarless flannel shirt, barefooted and smoking a stubby black pipe, had been discovered standing within the truss uprights. With a peculiar smile he took a puff on his pipe. Art was about to speak when Connie took his arm and the two leaders started ahead.

“What’s doin’, kids?” remarked the boy at this move. “Where’s the party? Picnic?”

“Better come along and see,” retorted Art.

“Is this little Artie an’ his playmates?”

“It is, Flatfoot Hank!” exclaimed Art—for the boy was Hank Milleson, one of the Goosetown leaders. “Like to meet some of ’em?”

“I been waitin’ here fur you—all of you. Say,” he went on, and now the banter had gone out of his voice, “youse guys is goin’ over there to the paster to start somethin’, lookin’ fur trouble, ain’t you?”

“Supposin’ we are?” sneered Art.

“Well, what’s the use o’ that?” went on Hank. “That place kind o’ belongs to us. What’d you pick out our campin’ grounds fur?”

“Because they suited us,” responded Art, red in the face. “What you goin’ to do about it?”

“Nothin’. Only I thought I’d hang ’round here an’ ast you not to go.”

“I reckon you think we’re scared,” piped a voice. It was Sammy Addington, doing his best to get to the front.

“I guess you ain’t scared enough,” answered Hank.

“What you gettin’ at, Milleson?” broke in Alex Conyers.

“The boys has agreed,” explained Hank, “if you guys’ll go ’round by the pike and do your playin’ up by the dam, we’ll start nothin’.”

“Oh, they have, have they?” almost shouted Art. “Well, we’ve agreed that the whole bunch o’ you are a lot of bluffs. An’ the first loafer that gets in our path’ll get a swift smash in the jaw.”