CHAPTER X

BUD MORGAN ON THE SCENT

“What’s our plan of campaign, Hugh?” asked Bud Morgan.

“I was just going to say,” remarked the scout master, “that if we separated, and covered as broad a field as possible, the chances for picking up some sort of clue would be all the better. In that way we could agree to meet here, say in an hour or so, and compare notes. Then if by good luck one of us managed to strike a warm scent we could lay out a scheme for taking up the trail. What do you say to that, fellows?”

Both of the others admitted that what Hugh proposed would be the wisest move. Doubtless, Blake would have been happier had Hugh decided to keep him in his company; but, then, he was too proud to hint at such a thing. Besides, he realized that the greater field they covered, just as Hugh had said, the better would be their chances for picking up news.

So they separated, with the understanding that in about an hour from that time they were to come together again near the tent of Captain Barclay, so as to compare notes and decide on the next step.

Bud Morgan was more than eager to wander about the big, bustling camp. There were a thousand interesting things he wanted to see for himself. This was a golden opportunity which he meant to utilize to the utmost. He had been yearning for just such a legacy of good luck; and it had really come to him. That magical paper, signed by the general himself, would allow him to move at will. If any sentinel challenged his right to be amidst the tents of the assembled guardsmen representing the sovereign power of the State, all he had to do was to flash that document before his eyes, and the sight of the name signed at the end of the pass would end the detention instantly.

So Bud started forth with high hopes. He really meant to do all that lay in his power to assist poor Blake find his missing relative; but, then, while thus engaged there was no reason that Bud could see why he should not have a look-in at those things in which his heart were was bound up.

For a short while, then, he talked with some of the Battery K boys whom he knew, and who were naturally delighted to see any face from the home town.

Bud managed to show nice discretion. He was averse to telling the story of Felix, and his silly quarrel with his rich uncle and guardian to every one; and so, when by a few judicious questions, he found that those with whom he chatted had no information to give him, he soon broke away and resumed his wanderings.

In this fashion he soon exhausted the limited fund of information that could be picked up among the artillerymen of Battery K. The result was so meagre that Bud felt disgusted. He must branch out and seek other fields. Far and wide he would continue his investigations, ask his leading questions, and seek by every possible means in his power to get a clue worth having.

By degrees, however, his ambition began to wane. He met with so little success that he began to allow himself to grow slack in his efforts. Hugh would be almost certain to unearth some clue, for he most always did accomplish whatever he set out to perform. Then Bud was wild to spend a little time with the Aviation Corps, for deep down in his boyish heart he cherished an ambition to some day be an air pilot.

This would account for his fetching up in the distant section of the camp where he had been told the aviation squad had their hangars. More than half an hour had passed since parting from his chums, and Bud could truly say that he had worked faithfully to unearth a few crumbs of comfort for Blake.

“I deserve a little recreation,” he told himself. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I may never get another such a fine chance to talk with fellows of the aviation class.”

Having thus relieved his mind of any remorse he might have felt, Bud hurried his steps, and before long found himself in the region of the odd-looking hangars, or sheds, hastily constructed, in which several aeroplanes rested when not in use.

He had met with little obstruction thus far. Several times a sentinel had stopped him, acting under orders, but the sight of the magic paper had always sufficed to cause the man with the bayonet and gun to wave him along; so that by this time Bud was under the impression he could go anywhere he pleased.

Arriving at the ground where the birdmen held forth, he found a number of bronzed young fellows squatting around a fire, and swapping stories of possible past experiences. As Bud came up and stood there, curious glances were cast upon him. Perhaps most of them jumped to the conclusion that he must be the representative of some important newspaper, for Bud was a pretty husky sort of a fellow for his age; and young blood is often sought after by the great metropolitan dailies.

So Bud presently dropped down, and sat there listening. He drank in all he heard those aviators saying. One of them, it seemed, had been across the sea, and taken part in some of the dangerous forays, when Allied aeroplanes made daring raids on fortified towns or military concentration camps in the rear of the enemy forces, and his reminiscences of the thrilling scenes upon which he had gazed held Bud spellbound.

Others in the little group had not been so fortunate in seeing actual hostilities, but each man in turn narrated certain adventures that had befallen him; for even in piping times of peace aviators meet with perils calculated to make a stirring story.

One man in particular interested Bud. At the time he hardly knew why this should be so, for they were all strangers to him. Afterwards he was inclined to believe there must have been some sort of intuition about it, causing him to listen to everything this air pilot was saying.

His name seemed to be Johnson, for Bud heard him called that several times. The conversation had turned upon odd incidents connected with meeting people under peculiar conditions, and as he listened Bud heard Johnson saying:

“Queer how people bob up that you’d never expect to meet. Now, today while we were on the road here from the station, with the truck carrying our ’plane, I had a thing like that happen to me. Two years back it came about that I was flying at county fairs down in Florida. I did it as a means for making ready money, because I wanted to get hold of a new model hydroaeroplane that I was wild to own. My companion in the Fair venture was a fellow I never really liked, though he certainly had plenty of grit, and knew a heap about this flying business.

“Well, we separated in the end, because I couldn’t stand for some of his crooked ways. From that day to this I did not see him once; yet today, when we passed a little old house on the road here from the railway station, who should I see looking from the second-story window, and staring at all the aviation squad moving along, but my former partner of the Florida county fair flights. Which shows how small this old world is, after all. Why, I wouldn’t have been any more surprised if I’d landed on top of Mount Washington, and come face to face there with Luther Gregory!”

Bud almost fell over, he received such a shock at hearing the aviator calmly mention that name. Luther Gregory, the wild son of Uncle Reuben, the very man whose scheming had caused the scouts all that trouble while on the road to the mobilization camp—it came to Bud almost like an inspiration that in this astonishing way he had struck a clue.

Through his brain chased a dozen brilliant thoughts. Why, if Luther Gregory had really been the employer whose money had hired that clever trickster in the flivver to do everything in his power to obstruct the progress of Blake and his chums, didn’t it stand to reason that the chief plotter must have come on the ground in order to have a hand in the final attempt to keep Felix from making up with his uncle?

Bud wanted to shake hands with himself, he felt so tickled. For some little time he sat there and communed with himself, laying out various plans whereby he and Hugh and Blake might yet win the game that had seemed to be going against them.

He was suddenly aroused by seeing Johnson getting on his feet, and yawning, as if he felt sleepy, and thought of turning in, although “taps” had not yet sounded.

Bud came to a quick determination. He must have a little chat with the air pilot, and learn a few facts from him. In order to accomplish his end it would be necessary for him to relate the story of Felix, but he could bind the other to secrecy. So he also arose and followed the aviator.

When a tap came on his shoulder, and Johnson turned to find himself confronted by the boy, he may have noticed sitting near the fire, listening, no doubt he felt a little curiosity as to why he had been picked out for an interview.

“Guess you’ve selected the wrong man, young fellow,” he went on to say with a jolly laugh, “if you’re expecting a thrilling yarn for your paper. Better tackle Tom Sherlock, who’s seen exciting adventures over the big drink. He can spin you a story that will make your readers’ hair stand on end.”

“But I want to have a little chat with you, Mr. Johnson,” urged Bud. “I would thank you to give me just a few minutes of your time. It is on a matter that means a whole lot to a chum of mine. The queer part of it is that the mention of Luke Gregory’s name by you is the whole cause of my asking this favor.”

The aviator, naturally enough, was surprised.

“Well, you’ve managed to arouse my curiosity from the start, my boy!” he exclaimed, heartily. “I’ll be only too glad to listen to anything you may have to say. Come over here to my tent and sit down on a bench there; we can talk better at our ease. Right from the beginning let me say that if Luther Gregory has any share in your story, I’d wager it isn’t going to be to his credit.”

“You hit the nail right on the head when you say that, Mr. Johnson!” declared Bud, mentally hugging himself with delight over the wonderful success that had come his way.

He started in by telling how he and Hugh had been trying to find some reasonable excuse for visiting the mobilization camp, when Blake came along and told about the unfortunate quarrel between Felix and his uncle. Then Bud went on to relate how they had started for the camp in the old car. Step by step he narrated the difficulties they had to surmount, and how they felt positive most of their troubles came through the plotting of the man in the flivver, and who had been seen talking in a mysterious fashion with Luther Gregory in Oakvale.

It was an altogether thrilling story, and the aviator listened with rapt attention until Bud had come down to the point where he heard him mention that name of Uncle Reuben’s profligate son, and tell how he had actually seen him close to the border of the camp.

“All I want you to tell me, Mr. Lawrence,” Bud wound up with, “is the location of that little old house where Luther Gregory, you say, was looking out of the second story window as your Aviation Corps passed this afternoon. Don’t you see, if they have managed somehow to sneak Felix out of camp, it stands to reason he would be taken to that place, and kept hidden for twenty-four hours or so, until the time limit was past. Oh! please tell me, so I can carry the news to my chums, who will be tickled half to death to hear it.”

The air pilot saw the point, and proceeded forthwith to enter into such explanations that Bud felt sure he could not miss finding the place; and after that he hastened to break away, being fairly wild to see Hugh, and tell him the great news.