“Quick, now, hand me the light and look out you don’t trip on the wires. If they once get past Westy’s house—­g-o-o-d-night! Just inside the garage door there you’ll see a switch-turn it on. Here, take the lantern. If Westy don’t get this right, we’ll kill him.”

Tom, with but the haziest idea of what was to be done, followed directions. It evidently had something to do with the mysterious “dot flares” and with his own mean act. These excited nocturnal activities had a certain charm, and if it wasn’t mischief Roy was up to it had at least all the attractive qualities of mischief.

“You’ll see a book just inside the tent—­paper covered—­hand me that too, and come up yourself. Look out for the wires,” cautioned Roy.

He opened the Scout Handbook to about the middle and laid it flat on the tower rail.

“That’s the Morse Code,” said he, “easy as eating ice cream when you once get the hang of it. I know it by heart but I’m going to let you read them to me so as to be sure. Better be sure than be sorry—­hey? I hope they don’t speed that auto till we get through with them.”

“Can he answer?” ventured Tom.

“No, they haven’t got a car at Westy’s and no searchlight. He brings me the message all writ, wrot, wrote out, in the morning. They’ve got a dandy team there, though. Cracky, I’d rather have a pair of horses than an auto any day, wouldn’t you. Now be patient, Conny dear, and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

“It’s a long, long way to Tip—­Hillside. Do you s’pose Westy’s home yet? Oh yes, sure, he must be. Well, here we go—­take the lantern and read off the ones I ask for and get them right or I’ll-make you eat another plate of plum-duff! Feeding with intent to kill, hey?”

Tom couldn’t help laughing; Roy’s phrases had a way of popping out like a Jack-in-the-Box.

He had a small makeshift wooden bracket which stood on a grocery box on the tower platform, and in this the auto searchlight swung.

“Wait a second now till I give him ‘Attention’ and then we’re off. Guess you must have seen this light from downtown, hey?”

“Ye-re, I wondered what’twas.”

“Well, here’s where you find out.”

There was a little click as he turned the switch, and then a long straight column of misty light shot up into the darkness, bisecting the heavens. Far over to the west it swung, then far to the east, while Tom watched it, fascinated. Then he heard the click of the switch again and darkness reigned, save for the myriad stars.

It wac the first time in his life that Tom had ever been charged with a real responsibility, and he waited nervously.

“That meant, ‘Get ready,’” said Roy. “We’ll give him time to sharpen his pencil. Do you pull much of a stroke with Machelsa, the Indian spirit? She smiles a smile at me once in a while, and if you want her to see you through any kind of a stunt you just rub your cheek with one hand while you pat your forehead with the other; try it.”

“Can’t do it, eh?” he laughed. “That’s one of Mr. Ellsworth’s stunts; he got us all started on that. You’d think the whole troop was crazy.”

“I know him,” said Tom.

“He’s the worst of the lot,” said Roy. “Well, off we go, let’s have S-call them dots and lines; some say ‘dashes’ but lines is quicker if you’re working fast.”

“Tree dots,” said Tom.

Three sudden flashes shot up into the sky, quickly, one after another.

“Now T.”

“Line,” said Tom.

The switch clicked, and the long misty column rose again, remaining for several seconds.

“Now O.”

“T’ree lines,” said Tom, getting excited.

“Now P—­and be careful—­it’s a big one.”

“I’m on de job,” said Tom, becoming more enthusiastic as he became more sure of himself. “Dot—­line—­line—­dot.”

The letter was printed on the open page of the heavens and down in Barrel Alley two of the O’Connor boys sitting on the rickety railing watched the lights and wondered what they meant.

So, across the intervening valley to Westy’s home, the message was sent. The khaki-clad boy, with rolled-up sleeves, whose brown hand held the little porcelain switch, was master of the night and of the distance, and the other watched him admiringly.

Down at the Western Union office in Bridgeboro, the operator sauntered out in his shirtsleeves and smilingly watched the distant writing, which he understood.

Stop all autos send car with young folks back to Bennett’s sure not practice serious.

“Good-night,” said Roy, and two fanlike swings of the misty column told that it was over. “If they haven’t passed Westy’s yet, we win. Shake, Tom,” he added, gayly, “You did fine—­you’re a fiend at it! Wouldn’t you rather be here than at Conny’s party—­honest?”

“Would I?”

“Now we’ll rustle down the hill and see the bunch co’me back—­if they do. Oh, cracky, don’t you hope they do?”

“Do I?” said Tom.

“Like the Duke of Yorkshire, hey? Ever hear of him? Up the hill and down again. We’ll bring the sign up for a souvenir, what do you say?”

“Mebbe it oughter go back where it come from,” said Tom, slowly.

“Guess you’re right.”

“Ever go scout’s pace?” said Roy.

“What’s that?”

“Fifty running-fifty walking. Try it and you’ll use no other. Come on!
The kind of pace you’ve always wanted,” said Roy, jogging along.
“Beware of substitutes.”

It was just about the time when Roy was showing Tom his camp that a big touring car rolled silently up to the outer gate of the Bennett place. (The house stood well back from the road.) The car was crowded with young people of both sexes, and it was evident from their expressions of surprise and disappointment that they saw the yellow sign on the gate.

There were a few moments of debate; some one suggested tooting the horn, but another thought that might disturb the patient; one proposed going to the house door and inquiring, while still another thought it would be wiser not to. Some one said something about ’phoning in the morning; a girl remarked that the last time she saw Connover he had a headache and looked pale, and indeed Connover’s general weakness, together with the epidemic which prevailed in Bridgeboro, made the appearance of the sign perfectly plausible.

The upshot was that the auto rolled away and turned into the Hillside Turnpike. Scarcely had it gone out of sight when a patch of light flickered across the lawn, the shade was drawn from a window and the figure of Mrs. Bennett appeared peering out anxiously.

Ten minutes out of Bridgeboro, as the big car silently rolled upon the Hillside Turnpike, one of its disappointed occupants (a girl) called,

“Oh, see the searchlight!”

“Oh, look,” said another.

The long, misty column was swinging across the heavens.

“Now you see it, now you don’t,” laughed one of the fellows, as Tom’s utterance of “Dot,” sent a sudden shaft of light into the sky and out again as quickly.

“Where is it, do you suppose?” asked one of the girls.

“Does it mean anything?” asked another.

It meant nothing to them, for there was not a scout in the car. And yet a mile or two farther along the dark road there hung a lantern on an upright stick, directly in their path, and scrawled upon a board below it was the word, “Stop.”

Out of the darkness stepped a figure in a white sweater (for the night was growing cold) and a large-brimmed brown felt hat. One of his arms was braced akimbo on his hip, the other hand he laid on the wind shield of the throbbing auto.

“Excuse me, did you come from Bennett’s in Bridgeboro?”

“Yes, we did,” said a musical voice.

“Then you’d better turn and go back; there’s a message here which says so.”

“Back to Bennett’s? Really?”

“I’ll read it to you,” said the boy in the white sweater.

He held a slip of yellow paper down in front of one of the acetylene headlights, and read,

“Stop all autos, send car with young folks back to Bennett’s, sure.” (He did not read the last three words on the paper.)

“Did you ever in all your life know anything so perfectly extraordinary?” said a girl.

“You can turn better right up there,” said Westy. He was a quiet, uncommunicative lad.

The sign was gone from the Bennetts’ gate when the car returned, and the two boys standing in the shadow across the way, saw the party go up the drive and disappear into the house; there was still plenty of time for the festive program.

They never knew what was said on the subject of the sign and the mysterious telegram.

They kept it up at Bennetts’ till long after midnight. They played “Think of a Number,” and “Button, button, who’s got the button?” and wore tissue-paper caps which came out of tinselled snappers, and had ice cream and lady-fingers and macaroons and chicken salad.

When Connover went to bed, exhausted but happy, Mrs. Bennett tripped softly in to say good-night to him and to see that he had plenty of fresh air by “opening the window a little at the top.”

“Isn’t it much better, dearie,” she said, seating herself for a moment on the edge of the bed, “to find your pleasure right here than to be tramping over the country and building bonfires, and getting your clothing all filled with smoke from smudge signals, or whatever they call them, and catching your death of cold playing with searchlights, like that Blakeley boy up on the hill? It’s just a foolish, senseless piece of business, taking a boy’s thoughts away from home, and no good can ever come of it.”

Chapter VI