Our Young Aeroplane Scouts In Germany

[2]

CHAPTER I. SAVED BY QUICK WIT.

"Hold on there, I want a word with you!"

Billy Barry and Henri Trouville, the Boy Aviators, were in the act of climbing into a superb military biplane on the great parade ground at Hamburg when thus hailed by a mild looking man in citizen's attire, with face half-hidden by a slouch hat and a pair of huge, horn-rimmed spectacles.

There was a note of authority in that voice, gently tuned as it was, and behind those spectacles were a pair of eyes as keen as gimlet points.

The speaker was none other than Roque, the noted secret agent—"Herr Roque," if you please, fitting into his masquerade as a merchant having contract business with the authorities of the canvas city of aëroplane hangars.

"Come over to quarters for a few moments, young sirs, won't you?"

The polite manner of request was for the benefit of the bystanders, who had been awaiting the[4] flying exhibit, but the slight gesture that went with the words indicated a command to Billy and Henri.

They knew Roque!

Heinrich Hume, aviation lieutenant, who usually had a good deal to say on those grounds, made no more protest than a clam at this interruption of a special aëroplane test. He simply waved two other aviators on duty into the machine, as Billy and Henri marched meekly away with the imitation merchant.

While many of the spectators marveled at the apparent breach of discipline, the lieutenant was content to let them wonder. At least, he offered no explanation.

Billy and Henri did a lot of thinking as they crossed the parade ground—there must be something brewing, or Roque would not have been so impatient as to invade the parade ground at the time he did.

Roque conducted the boys into Lieutenant Hume's private office at headquarters, closed and locked the door behind them.

Removing his spectacles, and throwing his slouch hat among the maps that littered a big table in the center of the room, the secret agent at the same time changed his form of address—the oily manner was succeeded by abrupt and stern speech, which showed the real man of brain and unlimited authority.

[5]

The secret agent had seated himself, without invitation to the boys to do likewise. They stood, facing the real Roque they knew by former experience.

"Where is Ardelle?"

Roque put the question like a pistol shot, and fiercely eyed the youngsters before him.

The point-blank query failed to reach the mark intended.

Billy looked at Henri and Henri looked at Billy, and then they both looked at Roque with never even a quiver of an eyelash. They had not comprehended what was behind the dreaded agent's snapshot at their nerves. The truth of the matter was, they did not know anybody by the name of "Ardelle."

So Billy, with a bold front, remarked: "You can't prove it by us, sir. Mr. Ardelle is not in our list of friends."

"None of that!"

Roque pointed a menacing finger at the astonished pair of youngsters.

"I have it beyond doubt that Ardelle was on these very grounds a day or two ago, and by the word of a man who could not be mistaken. Fool that he was not to be sure at the time, and only the garb of a sailor to mislead him."

Then it jointly dawned upon the minds of Billy and Henri that Anglin, the smiling secretary of the[6] eminent director of affairs at Calais, and later in the rôle of a bubbling sailor here in faraway Hamburg, must be the Ardelle about whom Roque was talking.

They realized, too, that through their boyish delight in lending aid and a helping hand to one they had known in intimate association with that best of friends in France, they had unconsciously maneuvered themselves into a dangerous game, a slip in which meant a dance with death.

A tissue message from this very suspect that Roque was so eager to apprehend even then burned against the breast of Henri, a little wad of paper that now represented the price of the world to a pair of bright boys.

Condemned of mixing in the battle of wits between the grim Roque and his strongest wily rival from over the sea, and it were better that the young aviators had tumbled from their aëroplane during the last high flight.

But those who traveled in spirit with Billy Barry, the boy from Bangor, Maine, U. S. A., and his plucky teammate, Henri Trouville, in France and Belgium, can assure that it is no easy task to catch this pair napping.

The courage tempered by that first and continuous baptism of fire was good steel for any emergency.

Roque owned to himself that his quickfire had[7] failed to get results. His informant, himself just returning from a secret mission on hostile soil, had noted the movements of the sailor suspect on the aviation exhibit day, and also the attitude of Henri at the moment when the message was passed. But of the message itself, the reporting agent could have no knowledge. He was not near enough to detect a trick so deftly done.

Roque and Ardelle had measured brains many a time and often, but heretofore at long range, and the former had never seen the latter in person. Had such been the case, the French agent's invasion of the empire would have ended at Bremen, when these two masters of craft had both been guests at the same time of the same café.

Roque's unerring judgment had convinced him after the first question that the boys had no knowledge of the name Ardelle. Their first profession of ignorance was too real to be mere acting. The boys took care that the light that came to them as Roque proceeded did not shine in the direction of the lynx-eyed questioner.

The rigid lines in the face of the secret agent relaxed. These boys, after all, had once served him a good turn, with a skill, courage and fidelity far beyond the ordinary, and, perhaps, he was not sorry that he had apparently found them guiltless.

"Now, young sirs," said Roque, resuming the manner of the merchant, "I have another little journey[8] in store for you. I don't know for certain that it will prove as exciting as the last jaunt we took together, when you located a shipload of guns for me, but maybe so, maybe so.

"After we have made our excuses to the lieutenant," he continued, "we will go over to my humble home in the city, where I have some new clothes for you. I do not think you are warlike enough to want to travel in any sort of uniform, especially with a simple tradesman like myself."

It was on the tip of Billy's tongue to ask Roque why he kept up that sort of talk with those who knew him without his mask, and when there was no purpose to be served, but Billy concluded that he had better let well enough alone.

A roomy carryall was in waiting at the further end of the parade ground, toward which the merry old merchant led his young friends, with a hand under the elbows of both. It was pardonable for the aviation lieutenant to grin when the trio were passing, after making their excuses.

It had not, however, occurred to Henri to smile a response. He was just then indulging in a cold perspiration, caused by a leaping thought that Roque might personally supervise their change of garments, and in that curious way of his light upon the tissue billet pinned on the inside of his (Henri's) shirt-front.

Because they had not fully understood the meaning[9] of the dimly dashed message, Billy had suggested that they keep it for another sitting. The paper wad had not then turned into a torpedo.

Roque's house might have belonged to a retired gardener rather than to the man with the iron grip who claimed it as home. The dooryard blazed with red flowers, and the well-kept lawn was lined by earth beds spangled with blooms in colors beyond count.

"Welcome, young sirs."

Roque waved the way into a wide hall, at the end of which yawned a great fireplace. Bowing before them the boys saw the tallest man they had ever met outside of a sideshow, a very giant, who wore a long gray coat, with a good day's output for a button factory in front.

"This is my man of business, young sirs—Paul Zorn."

The "young sirs" instantly formed the opinion that Zorn would have no trouble in cracking a cocoanut between the row of glittering teeth he displayed when Roque so introduced him.

"We are going to put our young friends into store clothes, Paul. I hope you will be able to properly fit them, and it will also be my care that you do."

"Confound the man," thought Henri, "he has never since he called me out of the machine shifted his eye long enough for me to get a hand on that[10] tissue, and now he's going to act as my valet. He's just full of suspicion."

Billy, also, had been figuring some in his mind just what would break loose if Roque should find the sailor's note in Henri's possession. All of the powers of argument this side of the North Sea would then avail nothing in the matter of convincing Roque that he had not been double-crossed.

The only crumb of comfort that Billy felt he could hope for if the drop fell was that Roque would quit his comedy acting behind the scenes for the once—but that was scant comfort, surely, under this cloud of anxiety.

The boys soon knew what Roque had meant by "store clothes," for it was a regular storehouse of the styles of all nations that the makeup magician maintained in the second floor back of his Hamburg home—uniforms galore, the garb of the fighting man in the Old World war, known under the folds of Britain's Union Jack, the Tricolor of France, the black double-headed eagle of Russia, the sable Cross of the German Empire; the attire of the dandy civilian, the sedate tradesman, the student, the clerk, the livery of house and carriage service, and, indeed, what not?

"A nice little collection, young sirs," observed Roque, which remark again prompted the giant Zorn to display his mouthful of shining molars.

[11]

"How do you think Paul would look in this outfit?"

Roque indicated on the display rack a regulation English uniform of olive drab, with puttees, and a cap of the traditional French arms shape, but of khaki color.

Even if the boys had been in the mood to say that Zorn would look like the Eiffel tower in any sort of uniform, Roque gave them no time to break in upon his humor.

"Nothing like keeping up-to-date, young sirs, in my business. It was only a few weeks ago that this new style French soldier first appeared in Havre. And here we can make his mate in a minute or two."

This cat and mouse play was wearing on Billy and Henri. Free of anxiety, they might have enjoyed digging into the maze of disguises as they would the pages of a popular detective story, but they had a play of their own to make, and no chance yet to make it.

"Now, Paul, how will we fix up these young flyers for a bit of ground work? Something plain, yet neat, I think, will do for the sons of Doctor Blitz—I am Blitz to-morrow, I believe, Paul?"

Zorn simply showed his teeth. He was not expected to answer.

"Now, my bird boys, get out of those uniforms and I'll make a pair of likely students out of you.[12] Do you prefer Heidelberg, the School of Arts, or the Conservatory? No matter, though, it is just a shift for a short journey, and I guess I can make you up to pass muster."

All the time Roque was chatting principally for the amusement of himself and Paul, his hands were busy sorting a pile of clothing and he was ready to start a couple of young Blitzes into society in the most finished style—from glazed cap to shiny shoes.

It was just at this moment that Billy was seized suddenly with a fit of laughter, and his high glee was directed at Henri.

"Won't you set 'em going in that layout!" he howled.

With that he made a jump for his chum, as if to hurry the process of transformation. The playful effort commenced at the throat and scattered a few buttons. Henri resisted the attack, and for a second or two held Billy in close arm lock—time enough for the assailant to get a pin-jab in the thumb, and a wad of tissue paper in the clench of four fingers!

Roque viewed the antics with a frown of impatience, but the assistant of grenadier size roared his approval of the fun.

Henri was brisk enough then in taking off the old for the new, and by the time Billy commanded attention there was no occasion for worry.

Billy had swallowed the tissue!

[13]

CHAPTER II. A STIRRING HOLIDAY.

To be rudely routed out of a snug nest in a feather bed at 3 o'clock in the morning—a morning with a real chill in it—is not a desirable experience for the average house-bred boy, and even such seasoned campaigners as Billy Barry and Henri Trouville were inclined to grumble when the giant Zorn yanked the covers from their downy couch and gruffly ordered them to get up and dress, and to make haste about it.

By the pale gleam of a couple of candles, and the slight warmth from a newly kindled fire in a white china stove, the "Blitz boys" made their toilets of the interesting characters they were to assume.

"What time is it anyway?" yawned Henri.

"I guess I'm not good enough in higher mathematics to figure it out for you," growled Billy, as he tussled with leather shoestrings that tied, he said, "seven ways for Sunday."

The voice of "Dr. Blitz" sounded at the foot of the stairway, in the lower regions of the house. There was no "young sirs" about it. The "good merchant of Hamburg" was on vacation.

[14]

"Crawl lively there, you snails," were the words that ascended.

"Wonder what tip he is working on now?" whispered Billy.

"You will never know until you get to it." Henri had before been impressed with the fact that Roque was not in the habit of springing until he got on the board.

"Good morning, Dr. Blitz," was Billy's cheery greeting to the man who was making hasty breakfast at a table drawn up before a crackling fire in a big brick cavern. He could not have testified from side view that it was Roque, so he took a chance on "Blitz."

Along with a gulp of coffee the imposing person addressed shot a remark in German over his shoulder, which Henri afterward explained to Billy was very near to profanity.

The boys edged into chairs at the table, but missed a round of muffins through staring at the "doctor."

The merchant masquerade was wholly outclassed by this new display of the make-up art.

Billy wanted to say "ring the night bell," but sheer admiration kept him silent.

Whether it was the combined effects of the steaming coffee, hot muffins, and a big black cigar that followed, or the silent tribute in the eyes of his young guests, it was, nevertheless, a speedily noted[15] fact that Roque was thawing into more gracious manner.

"I suppose you know that it is only a few hours now until Christmas, and we must find some special way to observe it."

Billy and Henri could not get the straight line on Roque's remark, but later realized that the holiday was of the like they had never before passed.

With a cutting wind from off the icy flow of the mighty river Elbe in their faces, the boys followed their leader to the docks, where they boarded a small craft, evidently built for speed, which had steam up and manned for instant start.

The captain was the same who commanded the deck when the boys had accompanied Roque on a previous exciting excursion. This official, standing at attention, stiff as a ramrod, gave no visible mark of recognition as the passengers boarded the boat, but Billy could have sworn that he saw something like a twinkle in the captain's right eye when they passed the gangplank.

"No use asking where we are bound for," lamented Henri.

"Not a bit of use," agreed Billy.

They were out of earshot of Roque, whose tall form, in rusty black, was outlined in the dawnlight near the wheel of the churning steamer.

The first intimation of what was to be their next landing place came in the word "Cuxhaven," passed[16] by one sailor to another. The talk was in rapid German, but Henri caught the drift of the conversation without difficulty.

"By George," he whispered to his chum, "Cuxhaven is the place mentioned in Anglin's message."

"You mean Ardelle's message," corrected Billy.

"That's right," chuckled Henri. "I forgot that Anglin had become the big noise. Yes, it's the very place," he continued, "and it's a great naval base."

"It's a safe bet that Roque never hits a trail that isn't warm. Take it from me," and Billy was in great earnest when he said it, "there is going to be something doing."

Billy's prediction chanced, in this instance, to be more accurate than are some of the forecasts made by professionals.

It was in a dense fog that Christmas eve when the little steamer ceased chugging in the wide mouth of the Elbe, and the harbor lights burned blue. The captain condemned the weather in no uncertain terms, but Roque seemingly had no care for aught but his thoughts, as he leaned against the rail, with moody gaze fixed upon the anchored ships and the dim lines of the city beyond.

As he had shaped, not long ago, the famous raid of the German fleet upon English seaports, Roque did not underestimate the ability of his great rival, Ardelle, to open the way for a counter attack. Ardelle was known by the secret service to[17] be on this very soil—and, surely, for some big purpose. Minnows were not sent to stir up a pool of this size.

"But they'll find no sleepy towns to blow up here," said Roque to himself.

He was all for precaution, however, and his intuition was nothing short of marvelous.

When "Dr. Blitz" and his "sons" went ashore it was the foggiest kind of a Christmas morning.

A stalwart marine attempted to put the doctor through the question paces, but the real Roque whispered a fierce something into the ear of the would-be questioner that set the latter back-tracking in a jiffy.

It was a curious and remarkable fact, but true, that an hour after the eminent secret agent and his young charges had landed in Cuxhaven, Billy's prediction, "that wherever Roque is there's something doing," was verified. Every submarine cable connecting the fortresses of this coast sounded alarm, particularly high-keyed the frantic signal from Helgoland, the fortress island, thirty-nine miles away.

Roque dropped his doctor character like a hot potato when he learned the import of the flashes. He tossed his traveling case of surgical instruments into the first open doorway he passed, and the boys were compelled to run to keep up with his long stride.

Bombs were falling from aloft, exploding among[18] the shipping behind them, while in front one of the projectiles crashed upon a huge gas tank.

"The nerve of the devil mapped this out!"

The bitter emphasis of Roque indicated that he laid the blame of this unexpected invasion upon one head—that of Ardelle.

In the meantime, the fog-ridden atmosphere was riven by blazes of powder from the shore guns, trained upward, and the air squadron, Zeppelins and naval seaplanes, were leaping skyward to meet their kind in aërial battle.

Roque charged madly into the air station, dragging the boys after him.

A seaplane was balanced on the polished ways for the sweeping plunge.

"In the name of the Emperor!" he shouted, shouldering aside the men holding the poised craft. The same fierce whisper in the ear of the aviation lieutenant had effect identical with that upon the marine at the docks.

"Get to your places, you moonfaces"—this stern command hurled at the boys. Henri bounced into the motor section, Billy settled behind the rudder wheel, and Roque swung himself into the bow seat.

The long hull was launched with the snap of training, and with motors humming left the water without a wrench from its skimming start.

The Boy Aviators, certified masters of the air, were at their trade.

[19]

They had need of all their skill and daring that day!

"Set your course northwest," loudly ordered Roque. "Hit for Helgoland like a bolt."

"Look out that you don't hit something on the way!" shouted Henri from the rear.

The last warning was timely, if Billy had need of warning at all. There was peril in the foggy stretches.