Boy Scout Explorers at Emerald Valley

“Only ten more minutes, Jack, and we’ll be off duty. That gives us just time enough to get to the Scout meeting by seven o’clock. I’ll be glad to call it a night too!”

Warwick Washburn yawned as he lowered a powerful field glass through which he had scanned the sky for a glimpse of aircraft.

He and Jack Hartwell, a companion Boy Scout and Explorer, were nearing the end of a two hour trick at the Civilian Defense observation tower. Few planes had passed overhead and there had been no activity to break the monotonous vigil.

“Oh, it hasn’t been so tough,” returned Jack cheerfully. He was a lean, friendly youth, deeply tanned because he had spent practically all of his spare hours out-of-doors. “Our work is needed here as a protection against unexpected enemy attack. I’m glad to help, even if it is tedious to perch on this tower platform.”

“I’m not kicking,” said War. “Don’t get me wrong. These observation posts are necessary to cover gaps in our radar system. Only I wish more planes would pass over.”

“You’d like an enemy attack, or at least a little mystery and intrigue,” chuckled Jack. “That trip we made to Peru gave you a taste for adventure!”

“It did at that,” the other agreed. “After weeks of exciting life in the wilds, Belton City seems a bit tame.”

“Particularly this observation post?”

“Well, we’ve been reporting the movement of planes for several months now, Jack. I sure wish a little excitement would come our way again!”

“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong direction.”

Warwick stared at his friend, surprised by the remark. “The wrong direction?” he echoed. “What d’you mean?”

Jack relieved him of the field glass, focussing it on the entrance road of a nearby cemetery. The tower platform also offered an unobstructed view of the Pablo Automobile plant adjoining the burial ground.

“What do you see?” War asked as his chum remained silent. “Any ghosts moving around?”

“It’s that old automobile again,” Jack reported. “This makes four times in the last month that I’ve seen it turn into that cemetery road.”

“You’ve got that car on the brain, boy!” War scoffed, losing interest. “Forget it and stick to airplanes.”

“Okay,” Jack agreed, again training the glass on an expanse of sky. “All the same, it strikes me as queer that the car keeps coming back time after time.”

For weeks, Jack had amused fellow members of Explorers Post 21 by his constant reference to a mysterious automobile.

Not only had he called attention to it repeatedly, but he had noted down the license number, LC 1478. The car was a seven-year old model, driven by a man who wore workman’s clothes.

Jack had pointed out that the car always appeared at the cemetery entrance just at dusk or a trifle later. Furthermore, the driver nearly always parked close to the main highway, proceeding through the trees afoot.

Where he went the Scouts never had learned, for foliage blocked their view. But after ten to twenty minutes, he always reappeared and drove away.

“One of these days I’m going to check up on that fellow—” Jack began, but War interrupted.

“Listen!” he exclaimed.

A plane was passing the observation tower, high overhead. Instantly alert, the Scouts determined its altitude and type. Jack went quickly inside to send an aircraft flash message to the filter center.

His telephone contact established, he received the terse “Air Defense, go ahead!”

“Single—multi-jet—very high—” Methodically, Jack went on to complete the message, and hung up immediately after he heard the operator’s clear, “Check, thank you.”

The task completed, he rejoined Warwick on the breezy platform.

“Our relief’s coming,” War remarked, indicating two men who were walking briskly toward the observation tower. “We may as well take off for the Scout meeting.”

After the newcomers had arrived, the Scouts started at a fast pace for the Belton Methodist Church where the meeting of Explorers Post 21 was to be held.

“Step on it,” urged Jack. As crew leader, he made a point of never being tardy for a session.

“I’m practically running now,” Warwick complained, hard pressed to keep up. “What’s the rush? Anything important coming up at tonight’s meeting?”

“We want to talk over that canoe trip to Minnesota. It was postponed when our gang went to Peru instead, but this time it’s all set.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” War said pessimistically. “Something may come up. I’ve got one of those dark brown feelings!”

“Oh, you and your feelings!” Jack retorted with a grin.

The pair arrived at the church only three minutes late. Willie Medaugh, a tow-headed youngster of 15, and Ken Dougherty, a serious high school senior, already were in the recreation room which had been fitted up for Scout use.

“Hi!” Jack greeted his friends. “Where’s Hap?” He referred to George (Happy) Livingston, a former FBI man who directed Scout activities in Belton City.

“Not here yet,” replied Ken. “He telephoned that he’d been held up. We’re to go ahead with the meeting. He’ll be along later.”

“See what came for him,” Willie said, pointing to a thick, slightly soiled envelope which had been placed conspicuously on the table. “Mail.”

“Wonder why the letter was delivered here instead of to his office?” Jack commented.

“Because it had no street address,” Willie informed him. “It’s directed it care of the Belton Methodist Church. So the postman brought it here.”

“Get a load of that foreign stamp!” exclaimed War, fingering the envelope. “Colombia!”