Boy Scouts with Joffre; Or, In the Trenches in Belgium

A Mysterious Hot Box.

On a warm day in October three motorcyclists were speeding over Long Island roads toward New York City. One of the group was apparently setting the pace for his fellows. He was at least a hundred yards in the lead. With mufflers deadening perfectly the clamor of their engines the riders sped across the country like fleeting ghosts with never a sound to indicate their presence.

All three riders appeared to be about eighteen years old and were dressed in the well-known khaki uniform of the Boy Scouts of America. Could one have examined closely the badges upon their sleeves he would have discovered that two of the boys were members of the Black Bear Patrol of New York City. The third member of the group, a lad slightly smaller in stature than his comrades and with a very freckled face and very red hair, was a member of the Wolf Patrol of the same city. A Black Bear was on the leading machine that seemed to be making the pace.

Approaching the outskirts of a village the leader's speed perceptibly slackened and his machine veered abruptly from side to side of the roadway. He seemed in imminent peril of dashing into a nearby row of telephone poles. Instantly the others slackened speed.

"What's up, Harry?" inquired he of the red hair.

"Crossing cop, maybe!"

"Nix on the cop!"

"When Jack's in trouble, slow up!"

Without a moment's delay both boys shut off power and applied brakes, bringing their machines to a standstill beside their comrade.

Dismounting hurriedly the riders approached their friend.

"What's the trouble, Jack?" inquired the red-headed lad. Then without waiting for an answer he wrinkled his freckled nose in disgust and stepped back with loud sniffs of displeasure.

"You needn't tell me; I know," he cried. "Somebody tried to take lessons in cooking and burned the water before it could boil!"

Both his comrades laughed at Jimmie's remark. Jack, however, turned again to an examination of his machine with a worried look on his face. Touching the parts gingerly he went carefully over the engine.

"Whew, Jack," spoke up the third boy, "you're surely some loud smeller! What did you run over and why did you do it?"

"I know!" cried Jimmie excitedly. "He's got a hot box!"

"Sure?" inquired Jack teasingly.

"Hope I never see the back of my neck!" declared Jimmie.

"Guess I know now what that freight train conductor out in Montana meant when he spoke of a 'stinker,'" Harry mused.

"But how did you get it?" persisted Jimmie.

"Boys, if you want to know the truth, I think some one was unkind enough to wish this onto me!" soberly declared Jack.

"You don't mean it!" gasped Harry with a startled look.

"I do! When did we overhaul these motorcycles?"

"Yesterday. Each boy worked on his own machine, and I know I did a good job on mine. It runs like a scared rabbit!"

"All did good jobs! Mine, too, was in perfect shape. But look at that main crank bearing now! It's positively frozen!"

"Ho! Ho!" jeered Jimmie. "Frozen! Why, it's so hot you daren't even touch it! Just see it frying grease this minute!"

"That's the correct term for a bearing that gets so hot it won't let the shaft or axle turn. Maybe you didn't know that!"

"Well, Great Jumpin' Catfishes!" gasped Jimmie.

"It's a good thing Ned isn't here to listen to that slang!" declared Harry. "As leader of the Wolf Patrol, Ned objects to slang!"

"Well, if 'Catfishes' is any more slang than 'Frozen Hot Boxes,'" stoutly decided Jimmie, "I'll quit for keeps. Besides," he continued, "it's a good thing Ned isn't here or he'd laugh at us for a lot of amateurs who don't know how to run a motorcycle yet. I guess 'Yes'!"

"Look here!" cried Jack in an excited voice. Then instantly glancing about as if afraid of being overheard he continued in a lower tone: "This looks to me like a sure case of someone's having planned that we should have trouble. Feel the grit in that oil cup!"

"Let me see," urged Jimmie, stepping forward to bend over the machine for a careful exploration of the hot oil cup. Presently he straightened, and with wide open eyes glanced in wonderment toward his comrades as he extended a greasy forefinger for examination.

"That's emery!" he choked. "Emery will cut any bearing!"

"Emery!" echoed the two Black Bears in chorus.

"Yes, sir, emery! Some one must have put it there meaning to bring disaster to us. Tell you what," Jimmie went on hurriedly in a hushed voice, "it looks as if somebody had it in for us and we are due to go through the old story of having difficulties just before we reach a stage of success! Someone's trying to delay the Grey Eagle!"

"Let's not mind that just now," urged Jack, "the thing to do is to get this machine off the road and then hasten as fast as we can to the Black Bear Club Rooms to meet Ned. It's only two or three blocks to French Pierre's machine shop. One of you can tow me over there and we'll leave all three machines with him for the day at least."

"Right-O!" answered Jimmie springing to his motorcycle and starting the engine. "I'll tow you as fast as you can ride!"

In a few moments the three boys were again under way, but this time their progress was decidedly slower. Their course was laid toward a portion of the village devoted to factories. Here was located the machine and repair shop of a Frenchman whom the boys knew well. He had assisted them with his expert knowledge in many of their experiments, and the boys regarded him as a friend who could be safely trusted.

While the boys are proceeding on their errand it may be well to make a more careful observation of them. To those of our readers who have had the pleasure of following the adventures of the lads as related in previous volumes of this series, no introduction is necessary. For the benefit of those who have not become acquainted with the work and play of our Boy Scout friends a word of explanation may not be out of place at this time. Their adventures in the States, in Alaska, in the Philippines, in China, in Mexico, were thrilling in the extreme and gave many situations of peril from which only the most energetic efforts on the part of the boys themselves brought safety.

Jimmie McGraw, the lad with the red hair and freckles, had been a Bowery newsboy in New York until he had fallen under the observation of Ned Nestor, a well-known member of the Boy Scouts of America. He was of slight build, and though of about the same age as the other lads, was somewhat shorter. His active manner, quick wit and rash boldness in times of danger, coupled with a keen perception and an ability to correctly weigh values, more than made up for any apparent lack in the matter of size. Wise beyond his years, Jimmie always proved a welcome member of any party whether on business or pleasure bent.

Jack Bosworth, who had just suffered the disablement of his motorcycle, was the son of a well-known New York capitalist and corporation lawyer. Like Jimmie, he was exceedingly active. A strict observance of the "setting-up" exercises, diet and health regulations such as had been insisted upon by Ned Nestor had developed in Jack, as well as the other lads, a wonderful endurance. He possessed a skill in athletics that stood him well in hand when occasion required feats of endurance or agility that might well have taxed the ability of many men older or of greater physical proportions. Jack's dark complexion contrasted strongly with Jimmie's ruddy face and wealth of auburn hair, yet the two lads were warm friends despite their difference in appearance.