CHAPTER XXXII—A PROVIDENTIAL MEAL.

Sandy’s nightmare had the effect of keeping him awake, save for spells of uneasy dozing, for the remainder of the night. It was one that he never forgot. There were times when he sank into a half waking stupor and allowed the fire to die low. Then, waking up, he would see crouching in the dark corners of the rift all sorts of fantastic shapes. At such times he hastened to hurl on more wood, and then, as the bright flames crackled up, the shadows fled away and he breathed more freely again.

Sometimes he would creep to the mouth of the rift and gaze down upon the snowy flat beneath. Each time he had a faint hope in his heart that the dark shapes that he knew were the watching wolves might have abandoned the siege and gone away.

But every time he was disappointed. Every fresh inspection showed him the dark forms massed beneath him. They were gazing upward at the glow of fire proceeding from the rift. Once Sandy hurled down a red-hot brand among them. With yelps and cries those whom it touched loped away from the main body, but they soon joined them again. As for the others, they never moved. There was something uncanny in this immobility. It expressed a calm determination to see the matter through to the bitter end, be that what it might, which was far from comforting to one in Sandy’s predicament.

At last, somehow, the night wore itself out. In the east, on one of his visits to the entrance of his hiding place, Sandy descried a faint gray light.

The coming of the day inspired him with a fresh hope. Perhaps with the light of day the wolves would betake themselves elsewhere. Night is their favorite hunting time and they do not usually go much abroad till at least the afternoon.

But as the light grew stronger, Sandy saw that hope, too, fade away. Far from expressing any intentions of deserting their posts, the wolves greeted the slow rise of the sun with a howl that echoed up to the heavens. It sent a shudder through Sandy as he stood there looking down upon the massed gray backs and the hungry upturned faces.

“Is this the end?” he found himself thinking.

But just then something occurred to divert his thoughts. Across the snow came winging, in full flight, a flock of fine, plump snow-grouse. The plumage of these birds changes in winter from its summer russet and brown to a snowy white. Except when in flight it is almost impossible to distinguish them against a white background.

The flight of the birds inspired Sandy with a sudden interest. And it was no wonder that it did, for grouse are excellent food and not wild or hard to shoot. If they landed upon his rocky fortress he was reasonably sure of being able to get one or two of them.

The wolves, too, saw the coming of the grouse, and watched them with almost equal interest. Wolves by no means despise grouse, and sometimes stalk a flock miles in the snowy wastes, seeking a chance to pounce on them. And so, as the flight came on, they were watched by the boy and his besiegers with equal interest.

Sandy ran within his shelter so as not to frighten the birds from alighting on the rocks, which appeared to be their intention. Some stunted bushes, covered with a sort of hard, red berry must have attracted them, so Sandy guessed, or perhaps the rocks were a regular feeding ground on account of these same berries. From the mouth of his rift Sandy could command a view of a patch of the berry-bearing bushes. If only the grouse would alight in that particular patch he would be sure of a good shot or two. But would they?

He watched their maneuvers with feverish interest. His very life might depend upon their actions within the next few minutes. On came the flock, and at last they were above the rock fort in which the boy had taken refuge. With burning eyes and rifle in hand, Sandy watched them from his place of concealment.

But they flew on over the mouth of the rift to alight in some other feeding place. Sandy might have risked a shot as they passed over him. But to hit a bird on the wing with a rifle is a feat so seldom performed as to be noteworthy, and Sandy did not dare risk frightening them away altogether by sending a useless shot among them.

After all, he conjectured, they would probably come to the patch he was watching in the course of their wanderings about their feeding grounds. Throughout a great part of the morning he watched for the birds, but none appeared. Below, the wolves from time to time gave tongue. Sandy would have liked to creep out and try the effect of a shot among them, but he did not dare to risk showing himself for fear of alarming any of the grouse that might be approaching.

All at once he noticed among the brush patch some white moving objects. He knew that these must be the grouse. They had wandered around below him without his seeing them and were now feeding in the patch upon which he had his rifle sights trained.

But there was a long wait, severely trying to the patience, before the grouse began to move upward, making their way toward the rift and approaching a position in which it would be possible to fire at them with a reasonable prospect of success. Sandy’s hands trembled with excitement as the grouse fluttered and stepped daintily among the berries, pecking them off right and left.

At last one of them, a fine, fat fellow, came into full view. Against the dark brown of the dead brush his body made a splendid target. Sandy set his teeth, steadied his aim and fired.

The grouse fluttered into the air and then fell back upon the snow, dead. The boy had time for one more shot before the flock took wing.

He could not refrain from a cry of joy as he dashed down the rocks to secure his game. For a time at least he could sustain life, even pent-up as he was in his rocky prison.

CHAPTER XXXIII—OVER THE CREVASSE!

For one moment Tom beheld the tableau that had his helpless brother for its central figure.

Then with a hideous roar, like that of an express train rushing at top speed through a tunnel, the boulder crashed downward and upon the trail. Like figures that are wiped from a slate the mamelukes vanished, their lives crushed out in a flash under the huge rock.

“Jack!” shrieked Tom, as he saw.

“Sacre nom!” roared old Joe. “See!”

As the boulder flashed downward, rumbling into the crevasse at the side of the trail, the sled followed it!

In a small avalanche of snow and loosened shale Tom beheld his brother being swept over the brink to what appeared certain annihilation.

Tom reeled back against the inner wall of the trail. He felt sick and dizzy. For some moments he knew nothing. The world swam in a dizzy merry-go-round before his eyes.

Then he was conscious of somebody plucking at his sleeve. It was old Joe.

“Courage, mon enfant!” the old man was saying. “Eet may not be zee end. Wait here. Do not move. I weell go see. Whatever eet ees, I weell tell you zee truth.”

Tom could say nothing in reply. All he could see or think of was that terrible picture. The downward rush of the loosened boulder, the sight of the obliterated mamelukes and then the last glimpse of the sled as, with Jack clinging helplessly to it, it had plunged over the brink in a swirl of loosened snow! The injured boy had not even had time to cry out or to utter a word. He had been carried to his doom in absolute silence. In fact, the whole thing had happened so quickly that only the horror of the sight had etched its every detail indelibly upon Tom’s mind.

Old Joe cautiously approached the edge of the crevasse. He did not know but that there might be a treacherous “lip” of snow overhanging the brink. In that case, if he went incautiously he might share Jack’s fate. For, although he had tried to instill courage into Tom, the old trapper hardly entertained a doubt but that Jack’s dead body lay at the foot of the precipice.

As he made sure of his ground and then thrust his head over the edge, he received a joyful shock. Below him, in a deep snow, lay Jack and what was left of the sled.

Joe’s voice stuck in his throat, but at length he mustered up his courage and hailed the boy lying beside the crushed and broken sled.

“Hullo! mon ami!”

He paused while his heart beat thickly. And then a yell of joy burst from his lips.

The figure lying below him moved painfully and the boy waved an arm. Then, as if the effort had been too much, he collapsed again.

But Joe was jubilant. He sang and shouted his delight and hailed Tom in stentorian tones.

“He lives! Le garçon, he lives!”

Tom, his face as white as a sheet, came to Joe’s side. Together they gazed downward at the form of the boy on the snow bank below. It was a spot where the drifting snow, forced up the narrow canyon by some wild wind, had been piled within fifty feet of the trail. It was to this fact undoubtedly that Jack owed his life.

Beside him, and not very far away, was a huge hole in the snow like the crater of a volcano. It showed where the great boulder had bored its way into the soft snow with the velocity of a bullet. That hole gave them some idea of the mighty force that had wiped out the lives of the mamelukes.

Till the moment that Joe knew that Jack was alive he had given no thought to his precious dogs. But now he ran toward their mangled bodies and bent over them, the tears running down his old cheeks and his voice uplifted in lamentation.

He called to each dead beast by name and dwelt upon its particular virtues. His grief was so genuine and so heartfelt that Tom, urgent though the occasion was, yet felt some hesitancy in disturbing him until some minutes had passed.

Then the boy drew the old trapper’s attention to the necessity of devising some means of rescuing Jack from the snow bank below the trail. As Tom addressed him the old man sprang to his feet. The tears still streamed down his cheeks and his face was working with grief. But he burst into a flood of self-reproach.

“Ah! I was forget zee enfant, zee brave garçon who lies below. Forgive me, please. My heart ees veree seeck. I love my malukes lak I love my children. Now eet ees ovaire. We must work. Afterward I bury my dog. En avant! Vitement! Courage!”

The old man smote himself upon the chest with each word as if to instill action and courage into his breast.

“We must have a rope,” he said at length.

“Of course. We can do nothing without one. But where can we obtain one?”

They looked at each other despairingly. Without a rope they could do nothing. Yet Jack lay there below them, possibly in instant need of attention, and they were compelled to stand there helpless, unable to aid him.

It was one of the most trying moments of Tom’s life.

CHAPTER XXXIV—A BATTLE ROYAL.

Sandy cooked and ate one of his grouse and resumed his watching. The cooking, thanks to his training in the ways of woodcraft, was an easy matter for him. He had a small, telescopic cleaning rod with him for his rifle. Having plucked and split the grouse, he impaled it on this and cooked it over the embers.

He would have liked bread and salt, but was in no mood to grumble over his meal. He was only too thankful to have secured it at all. He noted with delight that the wolves were beginning to get uneasy. The hunger that was gnawing at them was beginning to work upon their patience. As soon as they saw Sandy they set up a chorus of howls and yapping barks and once more tried to scale the rocks. One almost succeeded in doing this, but Sandy shot it before it had gained a foothold. It shared the fate of the dead leader, the ravenous pack leaving absolutely nothing of its remains.

It was well on in the day when the pack began to raise their nostrils and sniff the wind. Plainly something was in the air that Sandy knew nothing about. The wolves, however, appeared greatly excited. They got on their feet and began to mill about, barking and yapping in bewildering discord.

“I wonder what is the matter with them,” thought Sandy, as he watched, and then it began to dawn upon him that something that either alarmed or excited the wolves must be approaching the rocks.

“Perhaps it is a man,” thought Sandy, with a thrill of pleasurable anticipation. The next minute he almost began to hope that no human being was near unless there were several of them in a large party, for a lone hunter or trapper would be able to make only a feeble stand against the pack.

At length, far out on the snow fields, he made out a dark form lumbering along toward the rocks. For some time he could not think what it was, but at last he made out the nature of the creature.

It was a bear, and a big one, too. It was probably one of those surly old fellows that refuse to hibernate like most of their kind and stay out the winter through, hunting what they can and maintaining a scanty living till spring comes again.

A sensation by no means pleasurable possessed Sandy at the idea of such company on the rocks. The wolves were bad enough; but a bear! However, he reflected, his rifle was of good heavy caliber and he had plenty of ammunition left to dispatch the bear if it should prove troublesome. Moreover, as Sandy knew, bear meat is good meat when one is hungry; and although the bear now approaching the rocks was undoubtedly poor and thin, its carcass would have at least some meat upon it.

But now his attention was distracted from the bear by the actions of the pack. They set up their hunting cry, which differs from their ordinary yapping accents very widely. In fact, wolves appear to have a rudimentary language of their own.

The constant milling round and round and up and out ceased. A sudden hush settled down over the pack and then, like one wolf, they were off. Sandy saw, with a thrill, what was coming. Their game was the bear! A battle royal hung upon the issue.

With an interest which swallowed up all other considerations, Sandy watched as the pack swept down on the bear. The big, clumsy creature had already seen them coming and had quickened his pace to a lumbering gallop, which yet brought him over the snow at a good speed. He was heading directly for the rocks, where he could make a stand. His instinct must have told him that out in the open he would have but a poor chance against his savage opponents.

Sandy felt a flash of sympathy for the great bear as the pack made a detour and were on his heels. He saw one chisel-clawed foot shoot out and a big wolf leap high and fall down, rent from shoulder to thigh. The killing gave the bear a breathing space, for the pack fell on their comrade with hideous yelps. Their cannibal feast gave the bear time to increase the distance between himself and his swarming foes.

He reached the rocks with the pack close on his heels, and then seeing that he could not scale the rocks, the huge creature upreared himself against the boulders and prepared to battle for his life.

With a yelp the leader of the pack flung himself at the great hairy animal’s throat. With one glancing sweep of his huge paw the bear disposed of him. One after another the wolves attacked their foe, only to be felled, wounded and bleeding, and to become victims to their own hunting mates.

“Good boy!” Sandy found himself saying. “Hit ’em again!”

His sympathies were all with the bear, making the fight of his life.

The wolves fell back. But the bear was not deceived. He maintained his stand against the rocks. The wolves crouched, glaring hatred and defiance at him. The ground about the battlefield was red now. Ten wolves had given up their lives. But the bear, too, showed marks of the combat. More than one pair of gleaming white fangs had met in his skin.

Sandy watched with the interest of someone who has a personal stake in a battle royal.

The wolves did not long remain quiescent This time they tried new tactics. They attacked en masse. Like a swarm of bees they flung themselves on the great monarch of the northern forests. His steel-shod paws swept right and left. Yelping and howling the wolves fell before him. But as fast as some fell, others took their places.

The bear was bleeding now. Wounded in a score of places, he fought on against his overwhelming foes with royal courage. To the boy watching from the rocks above, there was something almost sublime in the fight for life that the great creature was making against such overwhelming odds. But plainly the contest could not last much longer.

Like great waves of gray the wolves were hurling themselves forward. They fought blindly and desperately and the bear’s blows were growing weaker.

“I’ll help you, old fellow!” breathed Sandy. “I’ll take a hand in this myself. I’ve no more reason to love your enemies than you have.”

He reached out to the rocks and secured his rifle. When he turned back he was just in time to see a gray form at the bear’s throat. The wolf hung on while the big animal beat the air helplessly with his paws.

Bang!

Sandy’s rifle cracked and the wolf dropped to the ground. But the others hardly seemed to notice the intervention of the bear’s ally. So numerous were they, that their ranks appeared to be hardly thinned by their losses.

Again and again, unbaffled by the tremendous courage and the sweeping blows of their adversary, they returned to the attack. Again and again, too, did Sandy’s rifle crack, and each time a wolf drew his last breath. The battle was beginning to tell on the wolves as well as on the bear. Their leaders were gone. The pack began to fight in desultory fashion.

The bear’s blows were feebler, but since that desperate assault on his throat, the wolves had not had the courage to close with him. Sandy’s rifle completed their rout. At last they appeared to realize that they were pitted against the terrible fire tube of the white man as well as the steel-shod paws of the bear. They wavered, broke ranks and then, as if by a concerted resolution, they turned tail.

Straight for the forest they sped, while the bear, flinging his big bulk down on the snow began licking his wounds. Sandy looked down upon him. The big creature was an easy shot, pitifully easy, and his skin would make a fine trophy. Sandy raised his rifle to his shoulder and aimed it. He put it down and raised it again. But again his resolution failed him. “No, old fellow,” he exclaimed aloud, “you helped me fight those gray demons and for all of me, you shall go where you like unharmed.”

It was late afternoon before the wounded bear rose slowly to his feet, and without a backward glance shuffled off toward the south. Sandy watched him going across the snows for a long time. He was glad he had not shot him.

He turned from the trail of the wounded bear toward the north once more, and as he did so a shout burst from his lips.

Coming toward him over the snow were the figures of two men. With them was a dog sleigh, and they were traveling fast on a course that would bring them past the rocks.

Ten minutes later Sandy recognized in the travelers his uncle and the latter’s partner, Mr. Colton Chillingworth.

CHAPTER XXXV—THE DEATH OF “THE WOLF.”

Old Joe looked about him with despair in his eyes. When the sled had gone over the edge of the cliff, the ropes that bound the load to it and the harness of the dogs had gone with it. There was not so much as a foot of rope left by which they might devise a means of reaching Jack.

Tom groaned.

“What are we to do?” he demanded.

“We moost keep on and get help from La Roche. Eet ees not far now, mon garçon.”

“But by the time we get back, Jack may be—may be——”

Tom could not complete the sentence.

For lack of something to say, old Joe gazed about him. Suddenly he gave a cry of delight. On a ledge not far above the trail there were growing a thick clump of cedar trees.

“Bien! I get rope queeck! Watch, mon garçon!” he cried.

“But how in the world!” began Tom.

“Nevaire min’. Len’ me you’ hunting knife. Eet ees bettaire dan mine. Bien! Now ole Joe, he get rope vitement.”

The old trapper stuck Tom’s knife in his belt and clambered up to the steep plateau where grew the cedar trees. He ascended one after the other, peeling off long strips of bark from each. At length he had a big pile of long, pliant, tough strips collected on the ground. He brought these down to where Tom stood watching him with puzzled interest, although he had an idea of the object of Joe’s labors.

“Voila! Behold, mon ami! Now we soon have rope.”

“You mean to make one out of these?”

“Oui! Many a time have I make rope lak dat.”

“A strong rope?”

“A rope dat would hold a wild buffalo. Oui!”

“It was fortunate that those cedars were there, then.”

“Mon garçon,” solemnly spoke old Joe, “le bon Dieu put dem dere to remain till dere appointed time came.”

The old trapper set Tom to work plaiting the ropes in strands of three lengths of bark. These were knotted together till they made a strong, pliable rope of the required length.

Then they went to the edge of the crevasse. Jack was sitting up with one of the blankets from the sled drawn about him for warmth. He looked up as they shouted down to him.

“Jack,” hailed Tom, “do you feel all right now?”

“Sound as a bell, but I wish you could get me out of here.”

“We are going to try to. Can you fasten this rope around you?”

As he spoke, Tom held up the bark rope.

“Easily. Lower it away. If it wasn’t for this ankle of mine I might have tried climbing out, but I have had to cross that sort of exercise off my list.”

The rope was sent snaking down to Jack, and was found to be amply long, for the steep bank was not more than forty feet high instead of the fifty they had estimated.

As its end came within his grasp, Jack seized the improvised rope and made a loop in it which he knotted under his arm-pits.

“All ready?” hailed Tom.

“All ready.”

“Then hold tight and help yourself all you can.”

“I sure will. But please don’t let go!”

“Not if we have to go over ourselves,” Tom assured him.

A stunted “rampick” grew close to the edge of the trail. The rope was passed around this, one turn being taken so that they could rest and still keep their grip on the rope if they desired. Then the long haul began.

Inch by inch, resting at times when they were out of breath, the two, the boy and the old trapper, hauled Jack up to a point where they were able to knot the rope about the “rampick” and lift their comrade up to safety with their hands.

Thanks to the softness of the snow bank into which he had been hurled, Jack had not received additional injury, except for a few bruises. They rested for a time and then old Joe and Tom resumed the tramp to La Roche’s place. Carrying Jack between them and making frequent stops, it was dark when they reached there and found a warm welcome.

Tom promised La Roche liberal pay to take them back to Camp Yukon Rover, and after some demur the trapper consented. The next day he hitched up his dog sled for Jack’s convenience, and they started on again under his guidance. They paused on the homeward trail to bury old Joe’s faithful mamelukes, who had proven themselves, as have many others of the kind, faithful unto death.

Then the journey was resumed, for old Joe had promised to accompany the boys to their camp. Tom wanted his uncle and Mr. Chillingworth to meet the old man who had been such a good friend to them and helped them over so many stumbling blocks.

On their second day on the trail they espied an Indian coming toward them. It proved to be Pegic, the friendly Indian with whom they had camped. He set up a shout on seeing them.

“That Injun sure has suth’in on his mind,” said La Roche, noticing such unusual signs of excitement in the son of a stoical race.

A few moments later the mystery was explained. Pegic, with some others of his tribe, had the day before found a white man with a broken neck at the foot of a precipice.

It had proved to be the “little gray man,” whom they all had seen and of whose flight and theft they knew. Pegic, recalling the story of his friend, Joe Picquet, had searched among the dead man’s effects, which lay scattered about him. Among them were a black fox skin of shimmering beauty, which the Indian gravely handed to the delighted Tom, and many other skins, including those nicked from old Joe.

How the Wolf had met his death was never discovered, nor did his companions ever appear to explain the mystery. One explanation was that he fell from the precipice during a fight, a theory which some marks on his body served to support.

With frontier justice, old Joe Picquet awarded to Pegic for his honesty the skins unclaimed by himself or by the boys. They amounted in value to a considerable sum, and the Indian was delighted with the gifts of his white friends.

The next day they reached the camp of the Yukon Rover, where they found Mr. Dacre, Mr. Chillingworth and Sandy. How much they all had to tell each other and how many hours of the night were consumed in the telling, you may imagine. Tom and Jack did not receive the scolding they had contemplated getting for the loss of the black fox. Their recovery of the skin and the hardships they had undergone on the trail, in the opinion of both their elders, more than counterbalanced any carelessness they might have shown.

The remainder of the winter was spent in trapping with old Joe Picquet, who was retained at a good salary as chief trapper. The old man, too, not long afterward, bought himself a new team of mamelukes, but fine as they are he declares that no sledge animals will ever be seen in the north country to equal his lost team, for which he mourned for many months.

When Jack’s ankle healed, he took as active a part as any in the work and play of the Yukon Rover camp. In due course, spring came over the icy regions North of Fifty-three. The rivers were opened, and one fine day the Yukon Rover slipped her moorings and with a valuable cargo of live foxes—destined to start the first enterprise of its kind in the United States—she dropped down the Porcupine to the Yukon. On the bank a sorrowful figure stood waving goodbye. It was Joe Picquet. Long after a bend of the river shut him out from view, the boys could see him in their mind’s eyes standing there, motionless as a figure of stone, calling:

“Good-bye! Come back some day!”

“I wonder if we ever will?” mused Sandy as they stood on the foredeck beneath the “Totem of the Frozen North.”

“Who can tell?” rejoined Tom. “But whatever happens, we shall never forget our adventures up here.”

“I shan’t for one,” said Jack with conviction.

“Nor I,” echoed Sandy. “I feel different, somehow, bigger and older for it all.”

“And so say we all!” cried Jack.

And here we must bid good-bye to the Bungalow Boys, leaving them, as Sandy expressed it, “bigger and older” and better equipped to meet life’s trials and battles for the experiences that they had faced “North of Fifty-three.”

The End

THE BOY AVIATORS IN NICARAGUA; or, Leagued With Insurgents

The launching of this Twentieth Century series marks the inauguration of a new era in boys’ books—the “wonders of modern science” epoch. Frank and Harry Chester, the boy aviators, are the heroes of this exciting, red-blooded tale of adventure by air and land in the turbulent Central American republic. The two brothers with their $10,000 prize aeroplane, the Golden Eagle, rescue a chum from death in the clutches of the Nicaraguans, discover a lost treasure valley of the ancient Toltec race, and in so doing almost lose their own lives in the Abyss of the White Serpents, and have many other exciting experiences, including being blown far out to sea in their air-skimmer in a tropical storm. It would be unfair to divulge the part that wireless plays in rescuing them from their predicament. In a brand new field of fiction for boys the Chester brothers and their aeroplane seem destined to fill a top-notch place, These books are technically correct, wholesomely thrilling and geared up to third speed.

THE BOY AVIATORS ON SECRET SERVICE; or, Working With Wireless

In this live-wire narrative of peril and adventure, laid in the Everglades of Florida, the spunky Chester Boys and their interesting chums, including Ben Stubbs, the maroon, encounter exciting experiences on Uncle Sam’s service in a novel field. One must read this vivid, enthralling story of incident, hardship and pluck to get an idea of the almost limitless possibilities of the two greatest inventions of modern times—the aeroplane and wireless telegraphy. While gripping and holding the reader’s breathless attention from the opening words to the finish, this swift-moving story is at the same time instructive and uplifting. As those readers who have already made friends with Frank and Harry Chester and their “bunch” know, there are few difficulties, no matter how insurmountable they may seem at first blush, that these up-to-date gritty youths cannot overcome with flying colors. A clean-cut, real boys’ book of high voltage.

THE BOY AVIATORS IN AFRICA; or, An Aerial Ivory Trail

In this absorbing book we meet, on a Continent made famous by the American explorer Stanley, and ex-President Roosevelt, our old friends, the Chester Boys and their stalwart chums. In Africa—the Dark Continent—the author follows in exciting detail his young heroes, their voyage in the first aeroplane to fly above the mysterious forests and unexplored ranges of the mystic land. In this book, too, for the first time, we entertain Luther Barr, the old New York millionaire, who proved later such an implacable enemy of the boys. The story of his defeated schemes, of the astonishing things the boys discovered in the Mountains of the Moon, of the pathetic fate of George Desmond, the emulator of Stanley, the adventure of the Flying Men and the discovery of the Arabian Ivory cache,—this is not the place to speak. It would be spoiling the zest of an exciting tale to reveal the outcome of all these episodes here. It may be said, however, without “giving away” any of the thrilling chapters of this narrative, that Captain Wilbur Lawton, the author, is in it in his best vein, and from his personal experiences in Africa has been able to supply a striking background for the adventures of his young heroes. As one newspaper says of this book: “Here is adventure in good measure, pressed down and running over.”

THE BOY AVIATORS TREASURE QUEST; or, The Golden Galleon

Everybody is a boy once more when it comes to the question of hidden treasure. In this book, Captain Lawton has set forth a hunt for gold that is concealed neither under the sea nor beneath the earth, but is well hidden for all that. A garrulous old sailor, who holds the key to the mystery of the Golden Galleon, plays a large part in the development of the plot of this fascinating narrative of treasure hunting in the region of the Gulf Stream and the Sargasso Sea. An aeroplane fitted with efficient pontoons—enabling her to skim the water successfully—has long been a dream of aviators. The Chester Boys seem to have solved the problem. The Sargasso, that strange drifting ocean within an ocean, holding ships of a dozen nations and a score of ages, in its relentless grip, has been the subject of many books of adventure and mystery, but in none has the secret of the ever shifting mass of treacherous currents been penetrated as it has in the BOY AVIATORS TREASURE QUEST. Luther Barr, whom it seemed the boys had shaken off, is still on their trail, in this absorbing book and with a dirigible balloon, essays to beat them out in their search for the Golden Galleon. Every boy, every man—and woman and girl—who has ever felt the stirring summons of adventure in their souls, had better get hold of this book. Once obtained, it will be read and re-read till it falls to rags.

THE BOY AVIATORS IN RECORD FLIGHT; or, The Rival Aeroplane

The Chester Boys in new field of endeavor—an attempt to capture a newspaper prize for a trans-continental flight. By the time these lines are read, exactly such an offer will have been spread broadcast by one of the foremost newspapers of the country. In the Golden Eagle, the boys, accompanied by a trail-blazing party in an automobile, make the dash. But they are not alone in their aspirations. Their rivals for the rich prize at stake try in every way that they can to circumvent the lads and gain the valuable trophy and monetary award. In this they stop short at nothing, and it takes all the wits and resources of the Boy Aviators to defeat their devices. Among the adventures encountered in their cross-country flight, the boys fall in with a band of rollicking cow-boys—who momentarily threaten serious trouble—are attacked by Indians, strike the most remarkable town of the desert—the “dry” town of “Gow Wells,” encounter a sandstorm which blows them into strange lands far to the south of their course, and meet with several amusing mishaps beside. A thoroughly readable book. The sort to take out behind the barn on the sunny side of the haystack, and, with a pocketful of juicy apples and your heels kicking the air, pass happy hours with Captain Lawton’s young heroes.

THE BOY AVIATORS POLAR DASH; or, Facing Death in the Antarctic

If you were to hear that two boys, accompanying a South Polar expedition in charge of the aeronautic department, were to penetrate the Antarctic regions—hitherto only attained by a few daring explorers—you would feel interested, wouldn’t you? Well, in Captain Lawton’s latest book, concerning his Boy Aviators, you can not only read absorbing adventure in the regions south of the eightieth parallel, but absorb much useful information as well. Captain Lawton introduces—besides the original characters of the heroes—a new creation in the person of Professor Simeon Sandburr, a patient seeker for polar insects. The professor’s adventures in his quest are the cause of much merriment, and lead once or twice to serious predicaments. In a volume so packed with incident and peril from cover to cover—relieved with laughable mishaps to the professor—it is difficult to single out any one feature; still, a recent reader of it wrote the publishers an enthusiastic letter the other day, saying: “The episodes above the Great Barrier are thrilling, the attack of the condors in Patagonia made me hold my breath, the—but what’s the use? The Polar Dash, to my mind, is an even more entrancing book than Captain Lawton’s previous efforts, and that’s saying a good deal. The aviation features and their technical correctness are by no means the least attractive features of this up-to-date creditable volume.”

BEN STONE AT OAKDALE.

Under peculiarly trying circumstances Ben Stone wins his way at Oakdale Academy, and at the same time enlists our sympathy, interest and respect. Through the enmity of Bern Hayden, the loyalty of Roger Eliot and the clever work of the “Sleuth,” Ben is falsely accused, championed and vindicated.

BOYS OF OAKDALE ACADEMY.

“One thing I will claim, and that is that all Grants fight open and square and there never was a sneak among them.” It was Rodney Grant, of Texas, who made the claim to his friend, Ben Stone, and this story shows how he proved the truth of this statement in the face of apparent evidence to the contrary.

RIVAL PITCHERS OF OAKDALE.

Baseball is the main theme of this interesting narrative, and that means not only clear and clever descriptions of thrilling games, but an intimate acquaintance with the members of the teams who played them. The Oakdale Boys were ambitious and loyal, and some were even disgruntled and jealous, but earnest, persistent work won out.

OAKDALE BOYS IN CAMP.

The typical vacation is the one that means much freedom, little restriction, and immediate contact with “all outdoors.” These conditions prevailed in the summer camp of the Oakdale Boys and made it a scene of lively interest.

THE GREAT OAKDALE MYSTERY.

The “Sleuth” scents a mystery! He “follows his nose.” The plot thickens! He makes deductions. There are surprises for the reader—and for the “Sleuth,” as well.

NEW BOYS AT OAKDALE.

A new element creeps into Oakdale with another year’s registration of students. The old and the new standards of conduct in and out of school meet, battle, and cause sweeping changes in the lives of several of the boys.

THE BOY INVENTORS’ WIRELESS TELEGRAPH.

Blest with natural curiosity,—sometimes called the instinct of investigation,—favored with golden opportunity, and gifted with creative ability, the Boy Inventors meet emergencies and contrive mechanical wonders that interest and convince the reader because they always “work” when put to the test.

THE BOY INVENTORS’ VANISHING GUN

A thought, a belief, an experiment; discouragement, hope, effort and final success—this is the history of many an invention; a history in which excitement, competition, danger, despair and persistence figure. This merely suggests the circumstances which draw the daring Boy Inventors into strange experiences and startling adventures, and which demonstrate the practical use of their vanishing gun.

THE BOY INVENTORS’ DIVING TORPEDO BOAT.

As in the previous stories of the Boy Inventors, new and interesting triumphs of mechanism are produced which become immediately valuable, and the stage for their proving and testing is again the water. On the surface and below it, the boys have jolly, contagious fun, and the story of their serious, purposeful inventions challenge the reader’s deepest attention.