“I say now, why are you fellows landing here?” The Canadian Mounted Policeman reined in his horse as close to the cock-pit as he could get, and eyed the two occupants in the plane, which had just landed in the southern part of the Province of Quebec.

“You want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” the blue-eyed youth in the passenger’s seat drawled in an accent that could belong to only one part of the world, Texas.

“If you’re telling it today,” the mounty replied. “If not, we’ll get it later.”

“Very true, but you shall have it pronto. From an elevation of three thousand feet we observed you, so we came down to find out if you are riding a real horse, or merely an imitation—”

“It isn’t a bad plug,” interrupted the pilot, whose eyes were blue and they rested with approval on the animal that had aroused their curiosity. “But, if you ever visit Cap Bock, we’ll fork you on something superior—we have a pinto that can—”

“Now, look here, I’m not fooling. You hop out of that and give an account of yourselves,” the mounty ordered firmly.

“Yes, sir.” The two obeyed willingly enough and the man dismounted. When they took off their helmets he saw they were boys, both had tow heads, and they didn’t look at all formidable or like a pair he might have to escort to headquarters. However, duty was duty and he wasn’t making any snap judgments or taking needless risks. There was too much smuggling, to say nothing of illegal immigration across the border, and orders were strict. It was not at all outside possibility that a couple of perfectly innocent looking youths might be the tools or employees of some powerful gang. The fact that they dropped out of the skies in an airplane was in itself suspicious.

“I’m Jim Austin, age sixteen years and two months. This is my step-brother, Bob Caldwell, fifteen years and eleven months,” the grey-eyed boy announced gravely.

“Proud to meet you, sir,” Bob bowed, then added. “I’m almost as old as he is.”

“Well, go ahead, get along with the story,” the mounty put in more pleasantly. His horse had walked close to the boy and was nosing about the pockets of his aviation coat. Soberly Bob drew forth an apple, broke it in half and fed the big fellow.

“We were both born with a complete pair of parents on ranches, adjoining ones, along Cap Rock in Texas, but circumstances, over which we had no control removed my mother and Bob’s father,” Jim explained. “When I was twelve I discovered that my father was spending a lot of time on the Caldwell ranch and I lay awake nights wondering why a Texas gentleman couldn’t shoot a lady.”

“And I planned to set a trap for Mr. Austin and fill him full of lead,” Bob offered. “Give me your apple, Jim.” Jim handed it over without hesitation and it was fed to the horse.

“Then, one day, I happened along by the water-hole and found some Greasers knocking the stuffing out of Bob. We beat them off, and after that, I went to the Caldwell’s. It was a nice, clean house and Mrs. Caldwell gave me a square meal, woman cooked.”

“My mother is the best cook in Texas,” Bob offered softly.

“Yes. That night I started to follow my father and I ran into Bob. We rode about and talked it over. Bob’s mother wanted him to go to school.”

“And Bob didn’t want to,” the officer suggested solemnly.

“Oh yes I did,” Bob replied quickly.

“But a mother, ranch, a string of horses and a pair of blue cranes, is a responsibility,” Jim offered, “Then, we rode to the house—”

“And found his father eating a piece of chocolate cake that I didn’t know anything about,” said Bob.

“And he’d eaten the last crumbs,” Jim added. “Then, we told them they were a pair of boobs. A week later the knots were tied that united the ranches and made us step-brothers. We were all at our place—”

“And Bob was to be sent to school?”

“Sure, but his mother said I had to go too,” Jim grinned.

“Not so good.”

“It was not so bad because his father said that when we finished the course, it was four years, we could have an airplane, he’d see that we were properly instructed in its chauffeuring. We were both hipped about flying,” Bob answered.

“So we went to the school, did the work in two years and a half, learned piloting on the side, then went home and made the old man keep his word. Meet Her Highness,” he waved his hand toward the plane which was a beauty.

“I’m glad to,” the officer grinned broadly. “Now, tell me what you are doing here.”

“You haven’t told us anything about yourself,” Bob reminded him.

“Later.”

“Bob’s mother has a sister, Mrs. Norman Fenton, and she lives on a farm on North Hero Island. In the summer time she takes tourists and calls the house, Stumble Inn. We came to see a bit of the world and to pay her a visit. Arrived yesterday and this morning took a hop over British soil. We like it even if it isn’t Texas.”

“That’s generous of you. I’m Sergeant Bradshaw on border patrol duty, the horse is Patrick. He was imported from one of the western states, don’t know which one, but he was a bloody beast when he was wished on me—”

“Somebody had mistreated him,” Bob announced. “He’s got a scar on his leg. Looks like a short-hitch hobble that cut him.” The boy stooped over, took the hoof in his hand and Pat submitted amiably to the inspection.

“Reckon it was done with raw-hide,” Jim declared. His fingers gently manipulated the old wound and Pat turned his nose about to sniff at the youngster.

“Pat doesn’t usually make friends with strangers. You must have a way with horses,” Sergeant Bradshaw told them.

“We came out of the sky to meet him,” Bob reminded the man.

“Dad told us before we started north to make our trip as profitable as possible by learning all we can. It’s against our principles to ask impudent questions, but we should like to know what you have to do,” Jim announced and Bradshaw laughed heartily.

“I have to patrol this territory, watch the roads carefully, and every place where smugglers of any kind might try to break across the border. There has been no end of bootlegging—”

“Thought Canada was all wet,” Bob grinned.

“The provinces have local option and Quebec went dry, so we have to enforce it, but the rum runners are the least of our troubles, although they are bad enough. There’s a lot of objectionable people sneaking in to both this country and yours, besides drugs and jewelry. This is a pretty wild section and it keeps Pat and me on our toes.”

“Noticed from the air it isn’t much settled. Didn’t know there is so much open space outside of Texas,” Bob said.

“I should think you’d have a plane and you could see what’s going on a lot better. With the glasses we knew all about what you looked like before we came down,” Jim remarked.

“There are some planes on the job, but men and horses are necessary—mighty necessary,” the sergeant answered. “The airmen can tell us if anything is moving that is suspicious, but we have to be down here to get it, unless the outlaws are taking the air.”

“Anything special afoot now,” Jim inquired.

“You bet there is.” Both boys looked at him eagerly. “Our men and yours have been working for months trying to get something on a gang that has put it over every time. If we don’t make a killing soon, I can see where there will be a general shaking up in both forces and a lot of us will be sent to hoe hay.” The officer spoke seriously and the boys listened with keen interest.

“Tell you what, we didn’t think we’d find anything very exciting so far north, but I reckon we’ll ooze around here and see what we can pick up. Maybe we can help you. You’ll recognize Her Highness if you see her sailing through again, and if we want to communicate with you, we’ll circle around and drop you a message if we can’t land. How will you let us know if you receive it O.K.?”

“That’s fine of you, Jim, but this is a man-sized job. I appreciate your offer no end, old top, but your Aunt and Uncle, to say nothing of your mother and father would come down on me hard if I agreed to let you risk your necks—”

“The parents are sensible people, we picked them out for that very reason. They both told us to have a good time, and helping you looks to me like a good time—”

“Besides, what would we risk? All we could do is report to you if we see anything, and like as not what we see won’t be much help because we’re so green. But, if we did see anything real—because we are such a pair of nuts we might put something over for you. We elect ourselves, you’re in the minority, so, if you hear Her Highness, listen, stop, watch. Come on, Buddy, your aunt was making cherry pies when we left and if we don’t get a move on, some cadaverous tourist is likely to come along and eat every snitch of it. They are a greedy lot.”

“Isn’t your aunt the woman who raises such a flock of turkeys?” the sergeant asked.

“Sure, she used to. She has them on Isle La Motte, but last year they didn’t do so well, and she said last night that she isn’t having much luck this spring. It’s tough because there is money in turkeys if you can ever make them grow up,” Bob replied.

“I drove down there once and got a couple for my family. They were grand birds. Come on, Pat.”

“You haven’t told us yet how we will know that you get our message,” Jim reminded him.

“I’ll wave my hat, and if I want you to come down, I’ll keep it off my head, but you fellows watch your step and don’t go doing anything that will get us all into the cooler,” he warned.

“We’ll look out.” They both rubbed Pat’s nose, then climbed into the cock-pit of Her Highness, this time Bob took the pilot’s seat.

“Need any help?”

“Not a bit, thanks.” Bob opened her up, the engine bellowed, the propeller spun and Her Highness raced forward, lifted her nose as if sniffing the air, then climbed into it. Jim waved at the man, who wondered if he had not better telephone the Fentons and tell them to keep the boys out of any trouble. On second thought, he decided against it. After all, their own air men were watching from above, and as they were every one of them experts at the game, they would report things long before the boys could possibly have their suspicions aroused. It would be too bad to spoil their fun, and if they would enjoy keeping an eye on the world, let them do it. They appeared to be a pretty decent pair of kids.

“You almost flew off with them, Old Top,” he remarked, giving the horse an affectionate pat, “and only yesterday you bared your teeth and scared the wits, what little he has, out of that Canuck. You are a discriminating old cuss.” He leaped into the saddle, but he waited to make a note of the meeting of the boys and their account of themselves. “Even at that they may be stringing me,” he remarked a bit uneasily as he glanced toward the fast disappearing speck in the sky, but he dismissed the thought immediately for he felt confident the step-brothers were entirely trustworthy.

In the meantime Her Highness climbed in swift spirals for three thousand feet, then Bob leveled her off, set his course and started toward North Hero, which is one of many delightful bits of land in Lake Champlain. Presently the boys could see a tiny shack with the British Flag floating on one side, the Stars and Stripes on the other.

“They look like good pals,” Jim said into the speaking tube, and Bob glanced over the side.

“Great pair,” he responded. “Not like the border at Texas.” He took a good look at the huge lake that stretched out restlessly between New York State and Vermont. “We could use that down our way.”

“Let’s send some of it to Dad. Remember how long it is?”

“One hundred and twenty-eight miles.”

“Bigger than the two ranches together.” They flew on until they were flying over the water, and Jim took the glasses to get a better view of the historic lake. He picked out Rouse’s Point, then on to the picturesque sections of land whose rocky coasts had defied the pounding waves. There was Isle La Motte, with it’s farms at one end and long wooded stretch at the other where the Fenton’s kept their turkeys. Beyond, united by a long bridge was North Hero Island, cut up into small homesteads. There were acres of uncultivated land which was now blue and yellow with flowers, groves of cedar, elm and ash, to say nothing of delicate green spots that the boys knew were gardens or meadows. Further on was Grand Isle, also connected by a bridge, but they were not going that far.

“Let’s hop down on the turkey end of La Motte,” Jim suggested, and Bob nodded. He shut the engine off, let Her Highness glide, and circled for a landing place. “Get on the water.” Young Caldwell kicked forward a lever which shifted landing wheels to water floats, selected a smooth cove, and in a moment they lighted, splashed and stopped.

“Hey you, get the heck out of here. Get out!” The voice came from back of a fallen tree, and in a moment a huge man whose face was ugly with anger, walked along the dead bole and shook his fist at them. “Get out. You ain’t no business around here.”

“We just dropped in to have a look at the turkeys,” Bob told him. “We’re—” But Jim stepped on his foot.

“What’s the matter?” He broke in quickly. “We’re not going to hurt anything. We’ve never seen a turkey farm and we heard that you have a fine one here.”

“You’re right you’re not going to hurt anything, and you’re not going to see this turkey farm. Hear! Now, get out! You’re on private property and I’ll have the law on you! Don’t you see them signs, ‘No Trespassing’, right there!” He pointed to a large sign hung between two trees and it plainly warned off inquisitive, or interested spectators. “Go on, now, get out.”

Bob glanced questioningly at his step-brother. He had started to tell the caretaker who they were, feeling sure that the information would naturally assure them a very different reception, but for some reason or other, the older boy wanted to withhold the fact. Just then the man broke off a dry branch, raised it over his head, and prepared to throw it.

“Move out of his range,” Jim said tensely. “He might land that in our propeller or tail.” Bob sent Her Highness scurrying over the water and the stick fell harmlessly behind the plane.

“The ornery old cuss,” Bob growled at the indignity. He whirled the plane about, held her nose low, and set the propeller racing. Instantly it kicked up a spray of water that shot out on all sides, and before the man could move, he was drenched to the skin.

“Confound your hides,” he bellowed, but Her Highness was circling away, then she lifted, climbed swiftly and started homeward. Bob taxied her low across the two miles of water, and brought her down close to the boat pier, where she “rode at anchor.”

“Boys, dinner’s ready.” Mrs. Fenton, a typical, tall, slender Vermont woman, came out onto the back veranda of the old house.

“So are we,” Bob shouted. The plane made secure, they raced around the curve, across the wide, sloping lawn, up the high stairs, and into the living-room.

“There’s basins outside to wash up,” Mrs. Fenton told them, and soon they were splashing the cold water over their faces, and lathering their hands with the cake of home-made soap.

“Well, you lads get a good look at Vermont?” Mr. Fenton joined them at his own basin. He too was tall and slender, with kindly grey eyes, and a broad smile. Although they had never seen him before until their arrival twenty-four hours earlier, they both liked him enormously.

“Corking. She’s some state, Uncle Norman!” Bob answered from behind the roller towel.

“She’s got a lot of her under water,” Jim added.

“Expect you’d like some of that in Texas.”

“Surely could use it. Cracky, some of those hot spots would seep it up like a sponge.”

“We could spare a good deal of it,” Mr. Fenton told them. “Especially when it’s high.”

“Does it get much higher than it is now?” Jim asked.

“It has swelled up fifteen feet more, then it does some flooding, but that doesn’t happen often, not so far north, but we get plenty. Well, come on in. Hope you didn’t leave your appetites in the sky.”

“We did not.”

“I will take the milk now, sir.” The boys turned quickly at the voice, which was deep and musical, and saw a tall, powerfully built man, whose skin and eyes were dark. He wore the usual overalls, a tan shirt open at the throat, and carried himself more like a person of importance than a working man or a farmer.

“All right, Corso. Here it is waiting for you.” Mr. Fenton handed down a covered pail.

“I thank you, sir,” Corso replied with dignity.

“Your nephew is doing an interesting job on that mud hole. The boy is a good worker.”

“He is learning. We thank you.” The man accepted the pail of milk and walked away swiftly. The boys noted that he was amazingly light on his feet for a man of his size.

“Is he a Vermonter, Uncle Norman?” Bob asked as they made they way to the dining room where the table would have groaned if it had not been accustomed to such a bounteous load.

“No, he isn’t. I really don’t know where he comes from, Bob, and my guess is Spain, although I’m probably miles off on that. He and his young nephew, a boy about thirteen, or perhaps a little older, rented a shack a mile or so up the shore; they paid several months in advance. Seem to spend their time walking, or on the lake, and I believe I’m about the only person, on North Hero Island Corso talks with, and he doesn’t say very much to me. I’ve seen the boy, of course, but I don’t know if he can speak English or not, I’ve never heard him.”

“He’s a nice looking boy,” Mrs. Fenton put in.

“Ever since they came your aunt has longed to get her motherly hands on him,” Mr. Fenton laughed.

“He needs a woman to look after him, see that he gets proper food and plenty of it. He’s as thin as a stick, and I know he was sick this spring. I did make Corso take some puddings and jellies to him,” she announced.

“They sound like an interesting pair,” Jim remarked.

“Well, they are, but they mind their own business, and we Vermonters mind ours. How about it, light meat or dark, Jim?”

“Dark, please.”

“What is the boy doing with the mud hole?” Bob wanted to know, for a mud hole didn’t sound very promising.

“I don’t know what it will be like when he gets finished but I’m keen to see. It’s a strip about two and a half acres wide, and five long, that has always been a dead loss for cultivation. It comes between my alfalfa meadow and the garden; dips down low and toward the middle is quite a hole. The place catches all the rain and hangs on to it all through the hottest months. I had an expert here to drain it several years ago, he sunk some pipes, and although he did get the water off, more came back inside of a few weeks, and it was full after the first rain storm. The land is very fertile, and if I could use it, I would raise bumper crops.”

“Shame you can’t.”

“Yes, it is. Corso came to me early this spring, some weeks ago, and asked if I would rent it to him, and permit him to dig and do anything he wanted to with it. He assured me he would do it no harm, nor the surrounding patches. I told him it wasn’t good for anything, but he seemed to want it, so I let him have it. He and the boy spend a great deal of time there, and they have hauled a lot of rocks from the shore. You probably noticed the edge of the lake, except around the cliffs, is all small flat stones, not very brittle, but not so soft as soap-stone.”

“Sure, we were looking at them last night. Some have pink and white streaks, like marble, and are pretty. I’d like to send a box to Mom for the garden walks. She’d be pleased to pieces to have them.”

“They have taken several loads of them and some very large stones. After dinner you might walk over and see what you make out of the work so far. I can’t make head or tail of it. A few days ago they planted corn, right in the mud, and in each hole they put a minnow they scooped out of the lake.”

“Why put fish in, do they expect to raise sardines?” Jim laughed.

“Can’t say,” Mr. Fenton answered.

“It’s some heathen notion I know.” Mrs. Fenton announced positively. “Are you getting enough to eat, Bob?”