“This is Miss Dorothy Dixon of New Canaan, and Mr.—” she hesitated.
“Bolton—Bill Bolton,” supplied that young man.
“The flyers!” Guard Watson’s honest face wore a broad grin. “Heard about you both—who hasn’t? Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.” He shook hands with them and nodded to Uncle Abe.
“It’s like this, Sam,” explained Mrs. Johnson. “Miss Dixon run out of gas last night and her airplane is down to the woodlot just below Raven Rocks in the Stone Hill River valley. Get Eddie, that’s his beat anyway, and keep an eye on the airplane until these young folks pick it up this afternoon. They had trouble with some tramps over there last evenin’ and put up to Uncle Abe’s for the night. Pass the word on to the rest of the boys about them dead beats that’s botherin’ people on the Reservation, will you?”
“I sure will, Mrs. Johnson. If they’re still around, we’ll run ’em off quicker’n greased lightning.”
“You’re very good,” smiled Dorothy. “We saw a couple of suspicious characters hanging round the Cross River entrance when we came over here to headquarters just now.”
“I’ll rout ’em out,” Sam Watson promised. “If they kick up a fuss they’ll put in thirty days behind the bars. Well, I must be hoppin’ it. Glad to have met you folks, I’m sure. So long, everybody!”
With a stiff salute and a broad smile he was gone. They heard him tramp down the hall and then the front door slammed.
“Checkmate to J. J. J.,” murmured Bill.
Dorothy played chess with her father—“Not checkmate—check,” she corrected. “By the way, Mrs. Johnson, I wonder if we can trespass on your good humor still further?”