“I’m just tellin’ you,” was Connie’s only answer. “But go ahead; I’ll be with you.”
A little before two o’clock ten boys, ranging in age from twelve to sixteen years, the charter members of the Elm Street Young Aviators Club, with President Trevor and Alex Conyers in front, started across the open ties of the railroad bridge.
Green River, hardly more than a succession of pools, lay along the north end of Scottsville. The much discussed pasture was a smooth and closely cropped stretch of land extending from the north end of the bridge to the old milldam a quarter of a mile to the west.
One glance through the open ironwork of the bridge told the approaching cohort that the enemy was ahead of them. Only a few hundred yards from the bridge, on a bank slightly elevated above the river, stood the big sycamore, the remaining monarch of many others that had fallen and had been carried away for firewood. Beneath its far-stretching arms lounged a group of boys.
“How many?” asked Art of Connie.
“Six or seven,” was Connie’s reply. “But don’t worry. The day’s young.”
“We’ll march straight by ’em,” added Art, “and up to where the pasture is broad and open, ’bout halfway to the dam. Here, fellows,” he went on, facing his followers, “don’t line up that way, two and two like a Sunday School parade. Scatter out. That’s one reason these guys give us the laugh.”
It was difficult to “scatter out” on the narrow railroad track but the boys did it as well as they could. When the center pier of the bridge was reached Art and Connie came to a sudden stop, while the eight boys behind them crowded against them. A freckle-faced lad, broad of shoulder, with a collarless flannel shirt, barefooted and smoking a stubby black pipe, had been discovered standing within the truss uprights. With a peculiar smile he took a puff on his pipe. Art was about to speak when Connie took his arm and the two leaders started ahead.
“What’s doin’, kids?” remarked the boy at this move. “Where’s the party? Picnic?”