“Sure,” he said, “we aviators think it’s pretty classy. Just the same,” he added seriously, “an air force without a base to work from would be pretty much like Hamlet with Hamlet left out. The two branches of the service are absolutely dependent one upon the other. Apart, neither branch would be effective. Together—well,” he ended with a boyish grin, “I’ll tell the world, we’re pretty good.”
As the boys said good-by to the curly-haired operator, promising to return in a day or two, and followed Payne Bentley down the stairs, they were ready to agree heartily with the latter in his estimate of the worth of the Forestry Service.
Bob said as much to Mr. Bentley as they stopped on the porch for a moment or two of talk. He added, with a laugh:
“But now that we have a perfect firefighting system—where are the fires?”
Mr. Bentley laughed, the fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes.
“That’s a pretty sound question,” he said. “But one to which we luckily have no answer just at present. With the exception of two or three small outbreaks not worthy of mention, there have been no fires for a considerable time. Our boys are getting lazy from light work.”
“Perhaps,” said Bob with a laugh, “the fires are scared.”
“Forest rangers got ’em bluffed, eh?” asked Mr. Bentley, with a twinkle in his eyes.
CHAPTER XII
THE ICE PATROL
“But say, I call this pretty tough,” broke in the irrepressible Herb. “Here we fellows came away up to Spruce Mountain in the hope of finding a little excitement, and you say there aren’t going to be any more fires. What kind of treatment do you call that, I’d like to know?”