Read Ebook: Across the Mesa by Bagg Helen Pitz Henry C Henry Clarence Illustrator

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Ebook has 2256 lines and 77618 words, and 46 pages

"Yesterday. Each boy worked on his own machine, and I know I did a good job on mine. It runs like a scared rabbit!"

"All did good jobs! Mine, too, was in perfect shape. But look at that main crank bearing now! It's positively frozen!"

"Ho! Ho!" jeered Jimmie. "Frozen! Why, it's so hot you daren't even touch it! Just see it frying grease this minute!"

"That's the correct term for a bearing that gets so hot it won't let the shaft or axle turn. Maybe you didn't know that!"

"Well, Great Jumpin' Catfishes!" gasped Jimmie.

"It's a good thing Ned isn't here to listen to that slang!" declared Harry. "As leader of the Wolf Patrol, Ned objects to slang!"

"Well, if 'Catfishes' is any more slang than 'Frozen Hot Boxes,'" stoutly decided Jimmie, "I'll quit for keeps. Besides," he continued, "it's a good thing Ned isn't here or he'd laugh at us for a lot of amateurs who don't know how to run a motorcycle yet. I guess 'Yes'!"

"Look here!" cried Jack in an excited voice. Then instantly glancing about as if afraid of being overheard he continued in a lower tone: "This looks to me like a sure case of someone's having planned that we should have trouble. Feel the grit in that oil cup!"

"Let me see," urged Jimmie, stepping forward to bend over the machine for a careful exploration of the hot oil cup. Presently he straightened, and with wide open eyes glanced in wonderment toward his comrades as he extended a greasy forefinger for examination.

"That's emery!" he choked. "Emery will cut any bearing!"

"Emery!" echoed the two Black Bears in chorus.

"Yes, sir, emery! Some one must have put it there meaning to bring disaster to us. Tell you what," Jimmie went on hurriedly in a hushed voice, "it looks as if somebody had it in for us and we are due to go through the old story of having difficulties just before we reach a stage of success! Someone's trying to delay the Grey Eagle!"

"Let's not mind that just now," urged Jack, "the thing to do is to get this machine off the road and then hasten as fast as we can to the Black Bear Club Rooms to meet Ned. It's only two or three blocks to French Pierre's machine shop. One of you can tow me over there and we'll leave all three machines with him for the day at least."

"Right-O!" answered Jimmie springing to his motorcycle and starting the engine. "I'll tow you as fast as you can ride!"

In a few moments the three boys were again under way, but this time their progress was decidedly slower. Their course was laid toward a portion of the village devoted to factories. Here was located the machine and repair shop of a Frenchman whom the boys knew well. He had assisted them with his expert knowledge in many of their experiments, and the boys regarded him as a friend who could be safely trusted.

While the boys are proceeding on their errand it may be well to make a more careful observation of them. To those of our readers who have had the pleasure of following the adventures of the lads as related in previous volumes of this series, no introduction is necessary. For the benefit of those who have not become acquainted with the work and play of our Boy Scout friends a word of explanation may not be out of place at this time. Their adventures in the States, in Alaska, in the Philippines, in China, in Mexico, were thrilling in the extreme and gave many situations of peril from which only the most energetic efforts on the part of the boys themselves brought safety.

Jimmie McGraw, the lad with the red hair and freckles, had been a Bowery newsboy in New York until he had fallen under the observation of Ned Nestor, a well-known member of the Boy Scouts of America. He was of slight build, and though of about the same age as the other lads, was somewhat shorter. His active manner, quick wit and rash boldness in times of danger, coupled with a keen perception and an ability to correctly weigh values, more than made up for any apparent lack in the matter of size. Wise beyond his years, Jimmie always proved a welcome member of any party whether on business or pleasure bent.

Jack Bosworth, who had just suffered the disablement of his motorcycle, was the son of a well-known New York capitalist and corporation lawyer. Like Jimmie, he was exceedingly active. A strict observance of the "setting-up" exercises, diet and health regulations such as had been insisted upon by Ned Nestor had developed in Jack, as well as the other lads, a wonderful endurance. He possessed a skill in athletics that stood him well in hand when occasion required feats of endurance or agility that might well have taxed the ability of many men older or of greater physical proportions. Jack's dark complexion contrasted strongly with Jimmie's ruddy face and wealth of auburn hair, yet the two lads were warm friends despite their difference in appearance.

Harry Stevens, the son of a prominent automobile manufacturer, was the third of this trio of travelers. His marked ability along mechanical lines had been given full play by his father. Harry's ambition was to produce an engine that would be suitable for use in air craft and that would excel anything heretofore known. How well he and his comrades had succeeded we shall presently learn.

Just now the three lads were hastening to New York to meet at the club rooms of the Black Bear Patrol their chum Ned Nestor, who had summoned them by telegraph from their stopping place on Long Island.

For purposes of greater seclusion during their experiments a hangar had been constructed on some vacant property owned by Jack Bosworth's father. In addition to being out of the regular line of travel the place afforded the further advantage of being within easy reach of a railroad as well as being near the beach of Long Island Sound. Here Ned and his friends had worked industriously for several weeks constructing an aeroplane along lines conceived by the boys themselves.

On this particular day Jimmie, Jack and Harry had been making the final adjustments on the frame and planes of the new air craft when a message had come over a "pony" wire from the nearby railroad station. Wonderingly, but unhesitatingly the boys had at once dropped their tasks and, at a suggestion from Jack, had chosen to use their motorcycles rather than wait for the next train. A watchman whose services in the past had been invaluable had been left in charge of the hangar and its precious contents. Their start had been without incident, and it was not until they approached the village a few miles from the hangar that they experienced any difficulty. Apparently the run would be a quick one.

At the village, however, Jack's mount had, indeed, developed a "hot box" which effectually prevented operating the machine.

In spite of Jimmie's threat to tow Jack's disabled machine at a rapid pace he was using a great deal of care and was running slowly. The boys had not proceeded far when Jack called out:

"Cut across lots, Jimmie! Go through the old foundry yards. It'll save nearly two blocks of travel!"

Jimmie's only reply was to nod his head. At the next street intersection he steered his motorcycle toward a foot path which led diagonally across a vacant lot formerly used by a foundry. A thick screen of shrubbery and bushes growing near the walk hid the lot from the view of anyone on the street. Not until they had passed through the opening in the bushes did the boys observe that a group of young fellows of about their own age were engaged in a game of ball on the vacant lot. These lads seemed to be rather low characters.

It was too late to turn back, however, so Jimmie gave a discordant squawk of his horn and held to the path, nearly colliding with a base runner who was sliding for second. Shouts of wrath and execration rose from the throats of the roughly dressed crowd of players and spectators. In an instant fists were being shaken toward the intruders, while chunks of cinder were wrenched from the ground and hurled in the direction of the cyclists. Coarse threats and foul language were mingled freely with appellations of scorn and hatred.

"Get out of here, you're buttin' into a game!" shouted one.

"Soak the snobs!" cried another, brandishing the bat he held.

"Get 'em, fellers!" yelled a lad, hurling a piece of cinder with poor aim. "Everybody soak 'em good and hard!"

One lad more venturesome than the others hurled a bat at the machines, now almost clear of the crowd. Jimmie had opened the muffler and turned on the power. Mingled with the roar of the exhaust came a sharp musical twanging that told of broken spokes. The bat had reached Jimmie's rear wheel, but fortunately the machine did not collapse under the now uneven strain. In another minute they would be clear.

"Don't let 'em get away!" yelled one of the toughs, drawing a revolver. "Don't let 'em get away! Stop the snobs!"

Seeing that the machines were winning their way to safety, the excited youth pulled the trigger again and again.

Secret Service Duty.

"Great Smoking Fireboxes!" exclaimed Jimmie.

"No, Jimmie, you should say 'Hot Boxes,'" corrected Jack.

"I meant to say 'Great Frozen Hot Boxes,'" smiled Jimmie.

"Here, here!" Harry cried impatiently, holding up a warning hand. "Just imagine what Ned would say if he heard that!"

"All right, when I see him I shall ask his permission to use that as an intense explosive when the occasion requires."

"You mean 'expletive,' Jimmie," Jack again suggested.

"You win the argument!" Jimmie announced resignedly, sinking further into the depths of a great chair. "I wish Ned would hurry!"

The three boys were seated in the club rooms of the Black Bear Patrol and were the only members present. Nearly the entire fourth floor of the handsome residence of Jack Bosworths's father had been given over to the use of the Black Bear Patrol. All the members had lent their best efforts to fitting the rooms up in a manner becoming the use to which they were being put. About the walls hung trophies of their prowess as hunters and fishermen. Rugs of skins were on the floors, chairs and settees fashioned by the boys themselves offered comfort, while pennants and ribbons indicating prizes awarded in athletic contests were plentifully in evidence.

"Maybe Ned didn't think we could get here so quickly," Harry suggested, moving a camp stool nearer the window and seating himself.

"Maybe he didn't think we nearly failed to get here at all!"

"If it hadn't been for the good qualities of that little 'buzz-wagon' of mine we would be arguing with that gang of toughs out on Long Island this minute!" declared Jimmie with some force.

"Right you are, Jimmie! You can handle a motorcycle. I'll hand you that. But they nearly got us in spite of your ability!"

"They're a tough lot of lads," admitted Jack. "They work only when they have to and loaf around living on someone else. It is getting to be a caution the way they annoy us, too. There ought to be some way of stopping them. We should see father about it."

"Good idea, Jack! Just now, it's too hot to think about that subject. What do you say to having a pitcher of lemonade?"

"The ayes have it!" declared Jimmie in a grave manner.

A step on the stair interrupted further remarks.

Ned Nestor, accompanied by an older man whom the boys at once recognized as Mr. Nobles, an attorney associated with Jack's father, came into the club room, glancing quickly about with a worried look on his usually bright and sunny face. His dark eyes were positively somber.

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