  “Hello! there, landlord, just put five gallons of gasoline in my tank, and charge it to dad, will you? I forgot to fill up before leaving our garage in town. I reckon there’d be a lot of trouble in the big granite quarry we own if Gusty Merrivale failed to show up to-day.” The speaker was a young fellow nattily attired, of about eighteen years of age. As he nimbly jumped out of the dusty runabout car, it could be seen that he was inclined to be rather arrogant in his manner. Indeed, one glance at his dark, handsome face betrayed the fact that he was more or less proud, and domineering. Gustavus Merrivale was comparatively a newcomer in the pleasant town around which many of the adventures contained in this Scout Series happened. Somehow Gusty had not seemed to care to mix with the general run of boys, picking up only a few choice companions from among the “upper crust.” His father was said to be a very wealthy man, and among other properties, he owned a logging camp far up among the hills together with a valuable granite quarry where fully five score of toilers were employed throughout the entire summer. The landlord of the village tavern apparently knew his customer. Several times before young Merrivale had motored through the village, and always just two weeks apart. By putting two and two together, the tavern keeper could easily surmise the nature of the errand that took Gus Merrivale up into that wild country so often. Had he been in doubt before, these last words of the boy must have enlightened him fully. “Pay day in the quarry, hey?” he went on to say, as he unlocked the reservoir that doubtless contained the supply of gasoline which he sold to passing tourists and others. “Your pa’s got quite a plenty of men employed up there, I understand, Mr. Merrivale; and just as you say, they’d kick up high jinks if their pay didn’t show up on Monday twice a month.” “Why, hello! Where did that bunch of motorcycles come from, Mr. Tubbs?” demanded the rich man’s son, pointing, as he spoke, to three up-to-date twin-cylinder machines standing in a cluster in a safe corner of the inn yard. “Three young chaps from your town are sitting yonder on the porch awatchin’ of us right now,” returned the landlord, softly. “Mebbe you happen to know them, seeing as how they’re Boy Scouts, and that Hugh Hardin has made somethin’ of a name around this section, I’m told.” “Hugh Hardin, eh?” exclaimed young Merrivale with a swift glance toward the side piazza of the tavern, where he now discovered several sprawling figures occupying as many chairs, and evidently resting up while waiting for dinner to be announced. “Yes, and his shadow, that Worth fellow, is along with him, and also the chap they call Monkey Stallings, who came to town just a month after I did. He fell in with that common herd right away, and joined the troop, but none of that silly scout business for me! I can see myself taking orders from a patrol leader, nit. What are they doing away up here; and where did they get those expensive machines, I’d like to know?” “It happens that I’m able to supply the information, Mr. Merrivale,” remarked the landlord quickly. Like most of his class, he enjoyed a chance to gossip and disseminate news which he had picked up. “Then I wish you’d be so kind and condescending as to inform me right away, sir. I was just speaking about getting a motorcycle myself; and even now I’m expecting a bunch of catalogues from which to select a machine. Those things cost all of two hundred apiece, and I fancy few boys have got as indulgent a father as I happen to own. So please go on and give me the facts, Mr. Tubbs.” “Why, you see, the Stallings boy has money of his own, and the others have been laying aside dollars right along, most of them earned by finding wild ginseng and golden rod roots in the woods. Besides, they say that Hardin boy did something not long ago that brought him in quite a fat reward, which he insisted on sharing with the chums who happened to be with him at the time. I kinder guess that Worth boy was along, and that helped him out. Anyhow, they’re taking their first long run, and have come something like seventy miles since breakfast at home. I’m getting a dinner for them, you know. Perhaps you’d like to stay over a bit and see what kind of a cook my wife is?” “What, me take pot luck with that crowd?” exclaimed Gus Merrivale with a curl of his upper lip. “Well, I hardly know them enough to speak to at home, and it isn’t likely that I’ll put myself out to improve the slight acquaintance. This scout business makes me sick. I don’t understand what the fellows see in it to strut around in their old khaki suits, and salute whenever they meet some one who happens to be higher up in line. Bah! catch me standing at attention and raising my hand when Hugh Hardin chances to pass by. If I could be an assistant scout master in the start, I might get a little fun out of the game; but to commence at the lowest rung of the ladder—well, excuse me, that’s all.” The landlord bent lower to hide the smile that flitted across his face. He knew just what type of high-strung boy young Merrivale was; and also had his own opinion as to how difficult it is to mix oil and water. From what he had observed, he understood how thoroughly those three lads lolling on his porch just then, were infatuated with the new life that had opened up to them since they threw in their fortunes with the scout movement. He had heard them talking, and found himself deeply interested in what they told of discoveries. There was enough of the woodsman in Uriah Tubbs to appreciate the sentiments they expressed. He, too, many a time had listened to the voice of Nature when alone in the wilds, and could understand how fascinating it must be to the right kind of boy to be able to unravel many of her secrets. Evidently young Merrivale would not bother investigating in order to find out what it was that lured these scouts on day after day. He saw only the surface indications, and resolutely refused to pry off the lid that hid the wonderful truth. The landlord did not attempt to enlighten him. There was something about young Merrivale that he did not exactly fancy—a curl of disdain to his upper lip, just as though he considered himself a superior person and above the herd. So Mr. Tubbs simply applied himself to the task of measuring out the necessary liquid fuel for which his customer had asked. When Gusty Merrivale chanced to look toward the porch, one of the three loungers waved a hand at him after the customary free-masonry of youth. The driver of the runabout made a careless motion as though meaning to acknowledge the friendly salute, yet not wishing to allow any undue familiarity. As the trio of scouts seemed to be very well satisfied with each other’s company, it was hardly likely that any one of them would go out of his way to scrape a closer acquaintance with so frigid and reserved a person. And yet, Hugh Hardin, the tall, agile chap who wore the badge of patrol leader and assistant scout master on his khaki coat, had told himself more than once that the new arrival in town might make a splendid addition to the ranks of the troop, if only he could drop that superior air, and meet others on a level. Several times had Hugh endeavored to become better acquainted with Gus Merrivale, only to be rebuffed, and made to feel as though he were thrusting himself in where he was not wanted; so, in time, he had given the idea up. When the required amount of gasoline had been placed aboard, the young driver of the road car sprang into his seat. He knew that the three scouts on the porch were watching him closely, but not for worlds would he look that way, lest he be compelled to wave his hand again; and to his mind that would seem too much like saluting. His car did not need cranking, having a self-starter installed. “Good morning, Mr. Tubbs. I expect to pass back this way later on in the day. Those steep hills give my car quite a pull you know!” he sang out as he threw on the power and started out of the inn yard, presently to vanish amidst a cloud of dust up the road. For some little distance young Merrivale made good time. He liked to fairly fly along, being possessed of a rather nervous disposition. As the ascent became more pronounced, his pace slackened considerably. The country had changed also. Instead of farming land on either hand, he looked upon dense woods, and hills that seemed to be composed of almost solid rock, though trees managed to find lodgment in crevices, so that they hid the rough conformation of the ground. It had been somewhere in this neighborhood that members of the Boy Scout troop had come during the previous summer when deeply interested in geological study; and, indeed, they could hardly have found a place better fitted for the purpose of yielding up valuable information. Gus Merrivale, however, only considered his surroundings in a mercenary way. His father owned thousands of acres of such land, as well as the logging camp, located there when snow covered the country. Five score of husky Italians labored in the granite quarry all through eight months of open weather. By degrees his car began to climb steep grades. It had evidently been carefully selected with just this capacity for mounting hills in view; and steadily it kept pulling the lone occupant upward. Now and then he could catch splendid views of the lowlands, and from the eager way in which Gus looked out at such opportune moments, it seemed as though after all he had a touch of admiration for Nature. In the course of half an hour he had arrived close to a peculiar spot where the road ran along near a steep precipice. A stout railing had been erected, under the supervision of the township freeholders who had charge of bridges and roads, in order to lessen the chances of any vehicle toppling over from that dizzy height. From this point, as Gus well knew, he would be able to obtain a splendid view not only of the road far below but of the distant country where several villages and towns lay, with their church spires showing above the trees. For a short distance before arriving at this place, the road lay level, and here he naturally let out his car so as to make up for lost time. As he turned a bend, and leaned slightly forward with the intention of cutting down his rather reckless pace, he suddenly saw something that gave him a severe shock. This was nothing less than a fallen tree across the road, hardly more than a sapling in fact, but enough of an impediment to have thrown his car aside and brought about a wreck, had he not noticed it in time. And even as he wildly threw on the brake, he saw the figure of a man, bearing a massive shining tin star on the left breast of his faded coat, spring out from the bushes waving his arms violently and shouting excitedly: “Hi! hold up there, mister! You’re exceeding the speed limit ahittin’ up a pace like that! I’m the Squeehonk constable, and I kinder guess I’ll have to run you in for breakin’ the law! This is an ortomobile trap, understand?” |
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