The Radio Boys with the Forest Rangers; Or, The great fire on Spruce Mountain

“We never think,” interrupted Herb Fennington. “At least that’s what Prof. Preston told our class the other day.”

“Speak for yourself,” broke in Joe Atwood. “As for me, thinking is the best thing I do. I’ve got Plato, Shakespeare and the rest of those high-brows beaten to a frazzle.”

“Sure thing,” mocked Jimmy Plummer. “But don’t think because you have notions in your head that you’re a whole department store.”

Bob surveyed his comrades with a withering glare.

“When you funny fellows get through with your per-per-persiflage——” he began.

“Did you get that, fellows?” cried Jimmy. “Persiflage! Great! What is it, Bob? A new kind of breakfast food?”

“I notice it almost choked him to get it out,” remarked Joe, with a grin.

“Words of only one syllable would be the proper size for you fellows,” retorted Bob. “But what I was going to say was that I just heard from Mr. Bentley. You know the man I mean, the one that we saw at my house some time ago and who gave us all that dope about forest fires.”

“Oh, you mean the forest ranger!” broke in Joe eagerly. “Sure, I remember him. He was one of the most interesting fellows I ever met.”

“I’ll never forget what he told us about radio being used to get the best of forest fires,” said Herb. “I could have listened to him all night when once he got going.”

“He’s a regular fellow, all right,” was Jimmy’s comment. “But what about him? When did you see him?”

“I haven’t seen him yet,” explained Bob. “Dad got a letter from him yesterday. You know dad and he are old friends. Mr. Bentley asked dad to remember him to all the radio boys, and said to tell us that he was going to give a talk on radio and forest fires from the Newark broadcasting station before long and wanted us to be sure to listen in.”

“Will we?” returned Joe enthusiastically. “You bet we will! But when’s the talk coming off?”

“Mr. Bentley said that the exact date hadn’t been settled yet,” replied Bob. “But it will be some time within the next week or ten days. He promised to let us know in plenty of time.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for a farm,” chimed in Jimmy. “But if it’s great to hear about it, what must it be to be right in the thick of the work as he is? Some fellows have all the luck.”

“Perhaps there are times when he doesn’t think it luck,” laughed Bob. “Half a dozen times he’s just escaped death by the skin of his teeth. But look, fellows, who’s coming.”

The others followed the direction of Bob’s glance and saw a group of three boys coming toward them. One, who seemed to be the leader, was a big hulking fellow with a pasty complexion and eyes that were set too close together. At his right was a boy slightly younger and on the outside another, younger yet, with a furtive and shifty look.

“Buck Looker, Carl Lutz and Terry Mooney!” exclaimed Bob. “I haven’t come across them since we got back from the woods.”

“Guess they’ve kept out of our way on purpose,” remarked Joe. “You can bet they’ve felt mighty cheap over the way you put it over on them in the matter of those letters.”

“‘There were three crows sat on a tree,’” chanted Jimmy.

“‘And they were black as crows could be,’” finished Herb.

The objects of these unflattering remarks had caught sight of the four boys, and as at the moment they were at a corner, they hesitated slightly, as though they were minded to turn down the side street. But after conferring for a moment, they kept on, their leader assuming a swaggering air. And whereas before the three had been simply conversing as they came along, they now began a boisterous skylarking, snatching each other’s caps and knocking each other about.

Just as they came abreast of the other group, Buck gave Lutz a violent shove and sent him with full force against Joe, who was nearest. The latter was taken unawares and almost knocked off his feet.

Joe had a quick temper, and the malicious wantonness of the act made his blood boil. He rushed toward Buck, who backed away from him, his face gradually losing the grin it wore.

“What did you mean by that?” demanded Joe, clenching his fist.

“Aw, what’s the matter with you?” growled Buck. “How did I know he’d knock against you? It was just an accident. Why didn’t you get out of the way?”

“Accident nothing,” replied Joe. “You’re the same sneak that you always were, Buck Looker. You planned that thing when you stopped and talked together. And now something’s going to happen to you, and it won’t be an accident, either!”

He advanced upon Buck, who hurriedly retreated to the middle of the street and looked about him for a stone.

“You keep away from me, Joe Atwood, or I’ll let you have this,” he half snarled, half whined, stooping as he spoke and picking up a stone as big as his fist.

“You coward!” snapped Joe, still advancing. “Don’t think that’s going to save you from a licking.”

Just then a sharp warning came from Bob.

“Stop, Joe!” he cried. “Here comes Dr. Dale.”

A look of chagrin came into Joe’s face and a look of relief into Buck’s, as they saw the pastor of the Old First Church turning a corner and coming in their direction. Fighting now was out of the question.

“Lucky for you that he turned up just now,” blustered Buck, his old swagger returning as he felt himself safe. “I was just going to give you the licking of your life.”

Joe laughed sarcastically, and before the biting contempt in that laugh Buck flushed uncomfortably.

“Stones seem to be your best friends,” said Joe. “I remember how you used them in the snowballs when you smashed that plate-glass window. And I remember too how you tried to fib out of it, but had to pay for the window just the same.”

By this time Dr. Dale was within earshot, and Buck and his companions slunk away, while Joe picked up his books and rejoined his comrades.

The doctor’s keen eyes had seen that hostilities were threatening but now that they had been averted he had too much tact and good sense to ask any questions.

“How are you, boys?” he greeted them, with the genial smile that made him a general favorite. “Working hard at your studies, I suppose.”

“More or less hard,” answered Bob. “Though probably not nearly as hard as we ought to,” he added.