The Flying Boys to the Rescue

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

And yet it not infrequently comes about that the whole theory turns out to be a rope of sand. It crumbles and truth assumes a wholly new guise. The brothers had done a good deal of guessing and might be far astray. It seemed to them that the missing Bohunkus Johnson would be found either near the spot where Professor Morgan had made his last descent and rise, or at the other place not far off where Dick Hamilton had seen the monoplane more than once. And still it was possible that the colored youth was not within miles of either locality.

Since, however, the two had no other basis upon which to act, they promptly set out to test the truth of their guesses. Although they were not far from settlements, towns, villages and camps of visitors in the wilderness, both straightway plunged into the wildest section of the southern Adirondacks. Harvey found the steeply ascending surface so precipitous that it was often hard work to force his way forward. Rarely could he do so in a straight line, and he was obliged to make many long, laborious detours, but he had a fine perception of direction, and a glance at the lake and country behind him prevented any confusion of the points of the compass. So arduous was his work that a full hour passed before he believed he was near the spot where the monoplane last halted. He was in doubt for some time, but finally identified the vast pile of rocks, with the exuberant growth of underbrush and trees only a little way beyond.

“This is the place,” he decided, after some time spent in inspection; “over yonder is where the machine was hidden from sight for awhile. I am sure I am not mistaken, though it remains to be seen whether the discovery will do any good.”

Nothing striking was observed when he looked around. Working his way to the right of the pile of stones, his eye rested upon an open space only a few rods in area, just beyond and between the rocks and the trunks of the trees. The decayed leaves on the bottom proved that not long before vegetation had taken root in the spot, but some cause which he did not understand had obliterated all traces of it.

An examination of the ground showed a disturbance of the leaves as if made by the feet of a person, and closer scrutiny disclosed where the small rubber-tired wheels of the monoplane had pressed. Unquestionably the young aviator had come upon the place for which he was searching.

But where was Bohunkus Johnson? Harvey saw nothing to suggest a cavern or the rudest kind of shelter. He groped here and there, but the search was unavailing. It might be, however, that the machine had descended at this point because no other near at hand would serve.

Harvey had hesitated through a strange dread of disappointment to appeal to the help that was his from the first. He now inserted his thumb and forefinger between his lips and sent out two resounding blasts which were twice repeated, the last closing with a queer tremolo that may be said to have been the highest attainment of the art of signaling. Only he, his brother and Bunk had mastered this crowning achievement.

“If that reaches Bunk’s ears he will know from whom it comes,” reflected Harvey in the attitude of intense listening.

From some point a long way off sounded the faint report of a gun; he heard the shout of a person answered by that of another; the soft breeze rustled the foliage overhead, but there was nothing more. Then he again repeated the calls, but in vain; not the slightest suggestion of a reply was returned.

Harvey’s depressing dread was that his colored friend had heard the call and refused to reply. It might be he refrained through fear of the Professor, whom he held in abject awe, or possibly he was so obsessed by the trip to Africa that he was resolute not to allow any interference by his friends. Finally Harvey muttered: