For some minutes no other Wolves could be made out. Bonner took another flight south and returned to find two white flags coming out into the main road from a lane. They were some distance away and Art was not sure but that they were among those who had already reported. As he trained his glasses on them they waved, “six” and “seven.” There was a quick check of his list by Art and then, with a yell of victory he tore loose the bow of a string beneath his seat, and the bright blue Wolf Patrol pennant dropped fluttering into the wind.
Every Wolf Scout within sight of the flag knew what it meant. At the first sight of the banner the Wolf call came from far and near. Eight widely scattered Wolf Scouts threshed the air with white pennants, and at twenty minutes after three o’clock, like the closing sticks of a fan, the Wolf searchers—led by the fluttering flag on the aeroplane above—were converging on the distant camp.
There was no quibble about the victory. When the Coyote Scouts reached camp, Hank Milleson was quick to shake the winners by the hand. “We got our trimmin’s,” he exclaimed with a laugh. “But we got ’em fair an’ square. I reckon a few brains are as good as a bunch o’ muscle.”
“No hard feelin’s?” smiled Connie.
“Not on your life,” answered Hank. “You deserve it, an’ we got to hand it to you—even if we did lose our hundred dollars. Mebbe it’s worth that to find out a thing or two.”
“Cut out the hot air,” broke in Art with a grin. “We got a lot to do yet. We got somethin’ up our sleeve for you kids yet if you’re with us.”
“Ain’t goin’ to rub it in, are you?” asked Hank with mock seriousness.
“Listen,” explained Art with the eagerness of long pent-up enthusiasm. “You know the big meadow up at Cloverdale?”
The Coyotes nodded their heads.
“Well, we got the shape of a big man-o’-war marked out with whitewash, out in the middle of it. Bonner’s goin’ to take the flyin’ machine right up there an’ we’re goin’ to have a new game.”