“We suggest,” wrote the president, “that you do not attempt to do this while it is a burden to you.” (The boy had also written to his old employers.) “Your treatment by the circus was outrageous and we sympathize with you. We were sorry to lose your services and will be glad to reëmploy you at any time. If you prefer to remain in the west until you have paid the expenses of your illness we will suspend payments on the engine until you are in a position to resume them.”
This suited Bonner and was received by his new associates with joy. As soon as it was determined that Bonner (or Bonny as he was immediately rechristened) was to stay in Scottsville that summer and fall, two much discussed secret plans were at once laid before the new boy; that he become a member of the Wolf Patrol and that the entire patrol join with Bonner, financially and physically, to restore the wrecked aeroplane.
Why this project should have been made a secret was hard to say. It was a matter of business with Bonny. But there was a boyish feeling among his fellow scouts that the rebuilding of the aeroplane in secret gave the project a glamor of romance—like a satisfied puppy gnawing over a hidden bone—and the attempt to restore the flying machine was to be made without the knowledge of any outsider.
Mr. Trevor, however, had to be consulted. Manifestly the wareroom where the broken planes were stored was no place to make repairs. A happy expedient was hit upon. Mr. Trevor owned several farms and one of these, the Cloverdale Stock Farm, was just beyond the town limits on the bluff north of the river bottom.
Here there were the usual barns, wagon sheds, cribs and silos. And in addition there was a low, wide implement house—full of farm tools and wagons in the winter but empty in the summer. Cloverdale being an up-to-date farm, one end of the implement building—“Shed No. 4”—was a smithy, with a forge for shoeing horses and a carpenter’s bench for the ordinary farm repairs.
Cloverdale was a mile and a half from town. The road that passed by the sycamore-tree resort wound its way across the river bottom and then turned east on the bluff. Finally it reached the river again and descended once more to cross a rattling iron bridge where, on the far side of the bridge, the road made its way between two pieces of open woods.
These, clean and free from dead timber, were favorite picnic grounds for all of Scottsville. Midway between the bridge and where the road reached the top of the bluff was Cloverdale Farm, whose dairy and fat cattle were the pride of that part of the country.
To this place, after nine o’clock one evening, when a mist of rain had driven most of Scottsville indoors, a farm wagon carried the remnants of the wrecked aeroplane. When these had been stowed within the blackness of “Shed No. 4” and its owner and Art and Connie had hurried back to town in Mr. Trevor’s automobile, another significant step had been taken in that summer’s adventures.
Although the Wolves and Coyotes had not clashed in these and the preceding days, they were well aware of each other’s doings. And, as nearly always happens, when the erring individual reforms or tries to, many persons rushed to the Goosetowners’ aid with never a thought of the others who had stuck to a reasonably straight and narrow path.
“I suppose you notice,” observed Art to Connie one day, “that we ain’t in it any more. People used to come out and make nice remarks when the Wolves marched by with our flag flyin’ and our new suits shinin’. The Coyotes were up on the public square last night durin’ the band concert, paradin’ around an’ gettin’ more applause ’an we ever did.”