CHAPTER IV—THE PAPER CHASE
Once again on the summit of the hill Whistler Morgan could overlook all the sloping pastureland bordering the pleasant road he and his friends had been strolling upon when the Zeppelin appeared; and he could view all the port and the harbor, as well.
It was no peaceful scene now. The bombing of the port had done no damage to the shipping; but there were fires burning in three places in the town, as well as on the site of the schoolhouse and where the Hun airship had fallen. No second Zeppelin had appeared from the sea; but the guarding airplanes had now gathered like vultures, floating high above the port.
Whistler did not wish to look in the direction of the schoolhouse site a second time. The shock of the destruction of all those innocent children was too fresh in his mind for him to be willing to view the spot closer. The crowd gathered about the steaming ruins were made up for the most part, probably, of the bereaved parents and friends of the victims.
In the opposite direction, up the road, where the twisted wreck of the Zeppelin lay, the American lad could distinguish the figures of some of his friends. He hurried in that direction, and as he drew near he saw that the crowd here gathered was very much excited. The man who had previously used the shotgun was waving his weapon threateningly, and some of the other people of the countryside were shouting at the group of gray-green figures that was plainly the crew and officers of the wrecked airship.
One of these Germans—a big fellow—showed marks of a serious beating. He was the fellow, Whistler was sure, that Willum Johnson had attacked.
The giant British seaman and the Colodia boys were right up in the forefront of the threatening crowd facing the Germans. But Whistler saw that there was a British Naval officer and several constables in charge of the prisoners.
“Remember, my man, that you wear the King’s uniform,” the British officer was saying to the giant as Phil approached. “I shall have to report your attack upon this prisoner. They all gave themselves up—”
“And they were all armed—every one of them,” put in Frenchy, sotto voce.
The officer glared at him; but it gave Willum Johnson courage to add:
“Who says they didn’t try to escape? Hi got the first bloke hout of the machine, Hi did. Then hother folks run up an’ ’twas hall over.”
“I saw one run,” Frenchy declared, looking boldly at the Naval officer.
“So did I, sir,” added Al Torrance.
“You mean that one of these Germans tried to run after the seaman here made his unwarranted attack upon them?” asked the officer sharply.
“Bill jumped on the first fellow out of the machine,” Al said with confidence. “The second chap ran up over that ridge and disappeared.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the officer. “Here are fourteen—all that were in the crew, so their commander says.”
“And Hi wouldn’t believe him if ’ee swore hit hon a stack of Bibles as ’igh as a ’ouse!” cried the Coster.
Just at this juncture Whistler Morgan interfered. He said very respectfully to the Navy officer:
“Beg pardon, sir, but the German that escaped is over behind the hill now. One of my chums and I chased him, and——”
“Do you mean to tell me there were fifteen members of the crew of this Zeppelin?”
“I’m not sure of that. He may not have been an accredited member. I think he is a spy brought over for some purpose and dropped here.”
“You know where he is?” demanded the officer.
“Yes, sir. My friend is watching him now. He had a bundle with a disguise and pistols in it. You’d never know him for a German the way he looks now.”
“Horray for Whistler, fellows!” shouted Al Torrance. “Let’s all go after the Heinie!”
The boys from the Colodia started away from the wreck at once, but the British Naval officer called after them:
“Hold on, my lads. I can’t have you going alone on such a mission. If there really is a spy at large——”
“He’s at large, all right, sir,” Morgan interposed. “Give us Willum Johnson and we’ll get the fellow, sure.”
“Aye, lad!” cried the giant sailor. “We’ll git ’im, dead or alive.”
“You see that you get him alive, Bill,” said the officer, sternly. “No mistake about that. I’ll have to explain your pounding this fellow all up.”
“Bli’me!” said Johnson, “Hi didn’t begin to treat ’im rough enough.”
But this was under his breath and after he had turned away to follow the four Navy Boys. The officer did not hear the comment.
By Whistler’s advice they all stooped at the summit and crept over the ridge among the bushes and rocks, endeavoring to keep their bodies out of the view of anybody below on the hillside, where Phil had left George Belding and the German spy.
“Hit’s a fair chance, lads, they seed me,” remarked the British seaman. “But mebbe they’d spot muh for a bloomin’ cow!”
“Where’s that other fellow, Whistler?” asked Al. “Belding, did you call him?”
“Yes. You ought to remember him, Torry. He was all one summer at Seacove. And say! his folks and my folks are in the most wonderful mix-up—wait till I get a chance to tell you all about it!”
The party dodged from rock to rock and from one clump of brush to another. Soon Whistler was rather surprised that they did not spy George Belding. He was not lying on the big rock where Whistler had left him.
“W’ere’s your chum, lad?” asked Willum Johnson.
“I guess the spy must have moved. George would follow him,” Whistler said with confidence.
“But how shall we know which way they have gone? We’re no Red Indians on the trail,” Frenchy observed.
“Oi, oi!” added Ikey Rosenmeyer. “It’s near sunset, too.”
“Don’t be afeared, lad,” advised the big sailor, wagging his head. “Nothing will bite yuh around ’ere.”
Whistler then explained that Belding had agreed to drop bits of paper by which they might follow his trail, and this encouraged them all. Near the rock and the hollow in which Whistler himself had seen the spy change his clothes they found no sign of either Belding or the Hun.
The latter must have carried his bundle of clothing with him when he moved from this spot. It was some minutes before Ikey’s sharp eyes descried the first handful of torn paper which George Belding had dropped.
“Here’s the trail!” he shouted.
“Hush up, youngster!” commanded Al Torrance. “Want to tell everybody all you know?”
“And it wouldn’t take him long at that—unless he stuttered,” said Frenchy, pounding Ikey between the shoulders.
“Oi, oi! I forgot,” explained Rosenmeyer, hoarsely. “Let up, Mike Donahue! Who are you taking for a bass drum?”
“Come on now, fellows,” Whistler said, leading the way. “Keep together and try to make as little noise as possible. We don’t know how near that spy may be.”
He had already found the second bunch of torn paper. Torry, walking close behind him, asked: “Will you know that German if you see him, Whistler?”
“Sure. He’s dressed like one of these farmers or drovers. But he’s got a goatee and a little moustache. He doesn’t look German at all.”
“You lads just point ’im hout to me!” grumbled Willum Johnson, walking next in line after Torry.
They got into a piece of woods after a little, finding that the paper trail led along a well defined path. Whether the German spy knew, or did not know, this part of England, he seemed to have a direct object in view, if George Belding’s trail was a thing to judge by.
This wood was nothing like the ordinary woods the American boys were used to around Seacove. It was cleared out like a grove, all the dry limbs lopped off the trees and stacked in certain places for firewood, and even the hedges thinned out for the same purpose.
“Why,” Al Torrance said, “we’d burn all that stuff as rubbish, wouldn’t we, Whistler?”
“And that,” agreed his chum, unpuckering his lips, “is why firewood at home is worth twenty dollars a cord.”
“Wot’s that?” gasped Willum Johnson. “Four pun a cord? My heye! hit’s no wonder there’s so many millionaires in Hamerica. Ye ’ave to be a millionaire to live there—eh, wot?”
“Right you are, man,” said Al. “Hi! where’s the next bunch of paper, Whistler?”
It seemed that the trail of paper fragments stopped abruptly. The party scattered through the wood, searching thoroughly for yards on either side of the path.
“Perhaps he ran out of paper,” suggested Frenchy.
Whistler, who was ahead, suddenly came to the edge of a hollow—a steep fall of some ten or a dozen feet. He parted the bushes and peered down into this hole. Then he uttered a startled cry that brought the others to the spot on the run.