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CHRISTIANITIES IN THE TRANS-ATLANTIC WORLD

The Life and Times

of Samuel Prideaux
Tregelles
A Forgotten Scholar

Timothy C. F. Stunt
Christianities in the Trans-Atlantic World

Series Editors
Crawford Gribben
Department of History
Queen’s University Belfast
Belfast, UK

Scott Spurlock
Department of Theology and Religious Studies
University of Glasgow
Glasgow, UK
Building upon the recent recovery of interest in religion in the early
modern trans-Atlantic world, this series offers fresh, lively and inter-
disciplinary perspectives on the broad view of its subject. Books in the
series will work strategically and systematically to address major but
under-studied or overly simplified themes in the religious and cultural
history of the trans-Atlantic.

Editorial Board
David Bebbington (University of Stirling)
John Coffey (University of Leicester)
Susan Hardman Moore (University of Edinburgh)
Andrew Holmes (Queen’s University Belfast)
John Morrill (University of Cambridge)
Richard Muller (Calvin Theological Seminary)
Mark Noll (University of Notre Dame)
Dana L. Robert (Boston University)
Arthur Williamson (California State University, Sacramento)

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 Timothy C. F. Stunt

The Life and Times

of Samuel Prideaux
Tregelles
A Forgotten Scholar
Timothy C. F. Stunt
Naples, FL, USA

Christianities in the Trans-Atlantic World

ISBN 978-3-030-32265-6 ISBN 978-3-030-32266-3 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-32266-3

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer
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 Andrew Walls
Pignus amicitiae et gratiarum
 Preface

This book has been some sixty years in the making.

When, as a schoolboy, I began my far from successful efforts to wres-
tle with classical Greek, my father who was an elder in the local assembly
of Plymouth Brethren, where we worshiped as a family, was delighted.
Being an earnest student of scripture, he reckoned that his son would
now be able to read the New Testament in its original language. In
1955, for Christmas, he gave me a copy of Bagster’s interlinear Greek
New Testament with its apparatus detailing the variant readings of the
seven principle printed editions, which succeeded the Erasmian text
reproduced by Stephanus in 1550. In the book’s introduction, I became
acquainted with six strange editorial names of which I had previously
never heard and which ever since have had for me something of a magic
ring about them: Elzevir, Griesbach, Lachmann, Tischendorf, Tregelles
and Alford.
My subsequent investigation of these exotic names uncovered some-
thing even more momentous for a boy whose family had been Plymouth
Brethren for three generations. At my father’s suggestion, I visited
the Marylebone Public Library to consult the Dictionary of National
Biography and learnt that for some fifteen years one of these scholarly
editors, Samuel Prideaux Tregelles, had been a Plymouth Brother, a dis-
covery that led me to wonder (with possibly a sigh of relief!) whether
perhaps we (Brethren) were not quite so peculiar after all! It was a
moment of instant bonding! I can no longer call myself a Plymouth
Brother, but the discovery, over sixty years ago, that a scholar like

vii
viii PREFACE

Tregelles had been numbered among us, set in motion the seemingly
endless search for what came to be known in my family as ‘Timothy’s
Tregelliana’.
In recent years, the focus of my long-standing interest in this remark-
able man has been sharpened by the Cambridge University Library’s
readiness to pay over a million pounds to secure ownership of the
sixth-century Codex Zacynthius—a palimpsest of St Luke’s gospel that
was first transcribed and edited by Tregelles more than a hundred and
fifty years ago. In the words of Lord Williams, the former Archbishop of
Canterbury, ‘The discovery and identification of the undertext’ of this
Codex is ‘a fascinating detective story’, and because Tregelles contrib-
uted so much to our understanding of that text, his life must similarly, I
feel, be worthy of investigation.
The quest for Tregelliana has been complicated and frustrating. In
spite of extensive local searches in Cornish and Devonian archives, my
findings relating to his early life in Falmouth have been sadly minimal,
and if ‘the child is father of the man’, my account of his development has
inevitably been hampered by this dearth of material.
By way of contrast, in the early 1960s I found well over a hundred
of Tregelles’s letters and other relevant materials in the private collec-
tion of the late Mr. C.E. Fry of Newport, Isle of Wight, who encour-
aged me to study them closely and authorized me to quote from them.
Providentially, I transcribed (in those far off pre-Xerox days) many of
these letters and I was later able to photocopy the remainder. Elsewhere,
I have briefly described this unusual collection and some of its travails in
the years before Mr. Fry consigned it to the safe keeping of the Christian
Brethren Archive [CBA], in the John Rylands University Library of
Manchester, but here I shall simply say that the laborious transcriptions
of my youth have proved to be invaluable as during the intervening years
several items in the collection were ‘lost’, although the new location of
some of them has recently become apparent.1
A major challenge faced by biographers is to elucidate the context in
which their subjects found themselves. Being a man of unbounded curi-
osity, Tregelles interacted with several cultural spheres, which were often

1For details of the Fry Collection, see my From Awakening to Secession (Edinburgh,

2000), 313–14. I shall indicate in footnotes if the original MS is now accessible in the CBA
or elsewhere, or whether I have been dependent on one of my fifty-year-old transcriptions
or a photocopy.
 PREFACE ix

practically unknown to one another. Pioneers of the nineteenth-century

Welsh renaissance could be forgiven for knowing nothing of evangelically
minded folk in Tuscany, just as Anglican textual scholars in Cambridge
were liable to have a very limited understanding of the fastidious moral-
ity of traditional Quakers or the theological peculiarities of the Plymouth
Brethren. Tregelles engaged with all of these people and it is my hope
that readers unfamiliar with one or more of these worlds with which, at
different stages, he was involved, will bear with details that are necessary
if we are to understand, not just the life of Tregelles but also the times in
which he lived.
Two further preliminary caveats are needed. The verbosity of much
Victorian writing can in any case be wearisome without having it further
confused with religious jargon. As one who struggled in his youth to
avoid what the French call ‘le patois de Canaan’2 I trust that my readers
will forgive me if I stress that although such language may be tedious in
the twenty-first century, those who used it (as Tregelles did sometimes)
were not necessarily hypocrites but merely prisoners of their cultural cir-
cumstances. (In fact, it was something of an achievement to have extri-
cated himself from the peculiarities of Quaker speech in which people
as well as the deity were always addressed as ‘thou’ and ‘thee’.) Their
earnest and wordy expressions of religious sentiment may engender
impatience but perhaps may also remind us of their less hurried world.
My second clarification is more specific. The maiden name of
Tregelles’s mother was Prideaux and not only was this, his second given
name, but it was the name by which his family addressed him. Further
to complicate matters, he married his maternal cousin Sarah Anna
Prideaux. The frequent use of this name in these pages would inevitably
leave room for confusion, and to avoid this I have sometimes used his
full name or just his surname, but often I have simply used his initials
‘SPT’—an identification, which also has the merit of brevity and ease of
speech in the possessive form.3 In a similar simplification, having to men-
tion with some frequency the seven volumes of his Edition of the Greek
Text of the New Testament, I have often referred to it as his magnum
opus. Others of his works have a reasonable claim to greatness, but SPT’s

2A mode of speech for which an English equivalent could be bibledygook.

3Perhaps, I should also make clear that my use of ‘SPT’ as his name is not a concession
to the somewhat quaint practice of the early Plymouth Brethren whose authors frequently
opted for the pseudo-anonymity of their initials (as in JND[arby] and BWN[ewton]).
x PREFACE

Greek New Testament is truly a monument to one man’s careful exacti-

tude and incomparable endurance.
As will become apparent, the principle concern in Tregelles’s life was
the original Greek text of the New Testament. The manuscript trans-
mission of ancient texts and their preservation in monastic and other
libraries have an allure all of their own, and therefore, they have been
an integral part of my quest for Tregelles. In all honesty to my readers, I
have to state that I can make no claim to any truly scholarly competence
in this field. I am fascinated by but not learned in classical languages
and consequently crave the indulgence of the real scholars who, I hope,
will find The Life and Times of Samuel Prideaux Tregelles to be of inter-
est albeit written by an historian who is little more than a linguistic
dilettante!
The number of debts incurred during sixty years is far too great for
me to enumerate. I trust that the expression here of my sincere gratitude
to all who have assisted and often patiently suffered in the gestation of
this project will be sufficient. I am sure that none of them will resent my
singling out my wife Nancy as the person who, grace à Dieu, ensured
that I would live to complete this protracted work.

Naples, Florida Timothy C. F. Stunt

Summer 2019
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 Contents

1 A Falmouth Childhood 1
1.1 Falmouth 1
1.2 Quakers in Falmouth 2
1.3 Years of Uncertainty 4
1.4 A New School 6
1.5 A Scholar in the Making 8

2 A Welsh Interlude 11
2.1 Neath Abbey, Glamorgan 11
2.2 A Quaker Apprenticeship 13
2.3 The Fascination of Welsh Culture 15
2.4 Questions of Scholarship 17

3 A Significant Change 21
3.1 Disagreement Among Quakers 21
3.2 A Learned Critic 23
3.3 The Challenge of Biblical Prophecy 24
3.4 A New Perspective 27
3.5 Biblical Studies 28
3.6 Marriage and Life in London 32

xi
xii CONTENTS

4 Brethren in Plymouth and Wales 35

4.1 Plymouth Brethren 35
4.1.1 A New Congregation with Some New Ideas 35
4.1.2 Previous Developments: B. W. Newton
and J. N. Darby 38
4.1.3 Disagreements and Division 40
4.1.4 SPT’s Involvement with Brethren in London 41
4.2 Brethren in Wales 47
4.2.1 John Pughe and John Eliot Howard 47
4.2.2 Ebenezer Thomas, the Bard 48
4.2.3 Eben Fardd and SPT 49

5 Textual Criticism and Its Importance for SPT:

A Necessary Digression 53
5.1 Manuscript Transmission 53
5.2 The Printing Revolution 55
5.3 The Beginnings of Modern Biblical Textual Criticism 57
5.4 The Overthrow of the Textus Receptus 59

6 Roman Frustrations and European Research 63

6.1 Codex Vaticanus and the City of Rome 63
6.1.1 The Work of Predecessors 64
6.1.2 The Journey to Rome 67
6.1.3 Frustrations in the Vatican 68
6.1.4 Other Activities in Rome 74
6.2 Other European Libraries 78
6.2.1 The Journey Home: Florence to Basel 78
6.2.2 Paris, Cholera and a German Itinerary 81

7 An Embarrassed Advocate of Brethren in Italy 85

7.1 Tuscan Protestants and Plymouth Brethren 85
7.2 Persecution and Its Consequences 87
7.3 Tregelles Takes up the Defence 89
7.4 Plymouth Sisters Take the Lead 92
7.5 Tuscan Divisions and SPT’s Withdrawal 94
 CONTENTS xiii

8 Tregelles and Roman Catholicism 97

8.1 Introduction 97
8.2 A Protestant Emphasis on Scripture 99
8.3 Varieties of Catholicism Encountered in Italy 101
8.4 The Madiai Case in Tuscany and SPT’s Reaction 104
8.5 The Social Consequences of Faith: Two Viewpoints 107
8.6 A Spanish Dimension 109
8.7 Disappointment 114
8.8 Changing Attitudes 115

9 Tregelles and Scripture 119

9.1 Quaker Positions and Reformation Attitudes 119
9.2 Inspiration: Superintendence or Verbal Inerrancy? 121
9.3 SPT’s Position on Inspiration 122
9.4 Tregelles, History and Prophecy 124
9.5 The Challenge of ‘Neology’ 128
9.5.1 SPT’s Rigorist Attitude to Gesenius 128
9.5.2 Horne’s ‘Introduction’ 130
9.5.3 Samuel Davidson 131
9.5.4 Controversy 134
9.6 Opposition from Conservatives 137
9.7 The Gentler Side of Disagreement 140

10 Tregelles and Tischendorf 143

10.1 Two Single-Minded Scholars 143
10.2 A Tradition of Acquisition 144
10.3 Tischendorf’s Secret Discovery 146
10.4 The Beginnings of Rivalry 148
10.5 Entrepreneurial Projects 151
10.6 The Storm 153
10.7 Earth-Shaking News from Sinai 155
10.8 Tregelles and Sinaiticus 157

11 Recognition, Controversy and Crisis (1850–1861) 163

11.1 A Changing World 163
11.2 Recognition and Reputation 165
11.3 A Continental Break 166
11.4 University Contacts 167
11.5 1859–1860: A Critical Year 171
xiv CONTENTS

12 The Later Years 173

12.1 Health Challenges 173
12.2 Family Responsibilities 176
12.3 Ecclesiastical Anxieties 177
12.3.1 Uncertainty at Compton Street 177
12.3.2 A New Pastor 179
12.3.3 Dissolution 181
12.3.4 The ‘Brethren Nemesis’ 183
12.3.5 Evangelical Isolation 186
12.4 The Magnum Opus and Its Distractions 187
12.4.1 Continental Collations 188
12.4.2 Diversion in Brittany 190
12.4.3 An Oxford Break 191
12.4.4 The Canon Muratorianus: An Exercise
in Apologetics 192

13 A Muted Finale 195

13.1 A Long-Standing Friendship 195
13.2 Apprehensions 196
13.3 Stricken with Pen in Hand 197
13.4 Conclusion 199

Epilogue 203

Appendix of Unpublished Letters 209

List of Archives 239

Bibliography 245

Index 265
 About the Author

Timothy C. F. Stunt was born in Chelmsford and was educated at

St Lawrence College, Ramsgate and Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge.
For almost fifty years, he taught ancient and modern history to secondary
school students in Britain, Switzerland and the United States. His pub-
lished work includes From Awakening to Secession: Radical Evangelicals in
Switzerland and Britain 1815–35 (Edinburgh, 2000) for which his alma
mater awarded him a Ph.D. He is the author of some forty contributions
to the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. His most recent publica-
tions have been concerned with the nineteenth-century Italian Risveglio
and the early career of John Nelson Darby.
He has two children and lives in south-west Florida.

xv
 Abbreviations

AHTL Andover-Harvard Theological Library

Alumni Cantabrigienses… see Venn, J.A.
Al. Cantab. 
Al. Oxon.  Alumni Oxonienses… See Foster, Joseph
AV  Authorized Version (a.k.a. King James Version)
BFBS British and Foreign Bible Society
Bibliotheca Cornubiensis… see Boase, G.C.
Bibl. Corn. 
BL British Library
BML Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana
BNC Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, Florence
Bod Bodleian Library
CBA Christian Brethren Archive, John Rylands University
Library of Manchester
CRO County Record Office, Truro, Cornwall
CUL Cambridge University Library
CW  Christian Witness
DBI  Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani
DQB Dictionary of Quaker Biography (typescript)
DWB  Dictionary of Welsh Biography
ECM  Editio Critica Maior of the Greek NT
EQ  Evangelical Quarterly
FQE  Friends Quarterly Examiner
JRUL John Rylands University Library, Manchester
JSL  Journal of Sacred Literature
JURCHS  Journal of the United Reformed Church History Society
LPL Lambeth Palace Library
LSF Library of the Society of Friends

xvii
xviii ABBREVIATIONS

LXX Septuagint version of the OT

MA Massachusetts
MS[S] Manuscript[s]
NLW National Library of Wales, Aberystwyth
NT New Testament
ODNB  Oxford Dictionary of National Biography
OR Oregon
OT Old Testament
s.n.  Sub nomine [under the name of the subject]
UGL University of Glasgow Library
 CHAPTER 1

A Falmouth Childhood

1.1 Falmouth
When the news of the battle of Trafalgar and the death of Lord Nelson
reached England in November 1805, it was the people of Falmouth, in
Cornwall, who were the first to learn the news. It may well be asked why a
little town like Falmouth was distinguished in this way, rather than one of
the great ports like Bristol or Plymouth. The simple answer is that not only
is Falmouth the third deepest natural harbour in the world, but it was also
the first port of safety available to a British ship entering the English channel
in an Easterly direction, especially if it was being chased by a larger French
ship—a familiar situation in the eighteenth century and early nineteenth
century as the French and the English were at war for much of that period.
In fact, on that day in 1805, a larger French vessel was pursuing Captain
Lapenotiere, who was carrying the Trafalgar dispatches in a very small
schooner, the HMS Pickle, and for him, Falmouth was indeed a place of
safety.
But Falmouth was more than just a haven in wartime. During the previ-
ous two centuries, it had grown sufficiently in importance to have become
the first port of call for the packet service, carrying mail from the United
States and other countries. In fact, Falmouth’s distinction as a port had
resulted in a significant growth in the town’s trading wealth and prosper-
ity and one family that participated in this process with great success is of
particular interest for our purposes.

© The Author(s) 2020 1

T. C. F. Stunt, The Life and Times of Samuel Prideaux Tregelles,
Christianities in the Trans-Atlantic World,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-32266-3_1
2 T. C. F. STUNT

From the mid-seventeenth century, the Fox family increasingly domi-

nated the commercial and industrial life of Falmouth.1

1.2 Quakers in Falmouth

Although they were not related to George Fox, the founder of the Quaker
movement, the family of that name in Falmouth was deeply committed to
the principles of the Society of Friends and to their pacifist ideals, which
forbad their producing materials that would be used in warfare. Their repu-
tation for probity meant that they were respected as a pre-eminently reliable
family with whom to have good commercial dealings, and George Croker
Fox’s2 shipping business was so successful that members of his family acted
continuously, from 1792 to 1905, as consuls in Falmouth for the United
States as well as a number of other countries.
In examining life in Falmouth during the late eighteenth century and the
part played in it by the Quaker element in its population, we are considering
the world into which the subject of this book was born in 1813. There
is a dearth of contemporary material relating to the early life of Samuel
Prideaux Tregelles and his family, but by investigating the society in which
he grew up, we can usefully discover something about the circumstances
that influenced his early development.
On a smaller scale than the Fox dynasty but nevertheless with some suc-
cess, the old Cornish family of Tregelles was one of several other Quaker
families that throve in Falmouth. In the South West of England, one of
the earliest followers of the founder-Quaker, George Fox, had been a tai-
lor John Tregelles (?1627–1706), who in 1676 had married Honoria the
daughter of a Spanish immigrant, Nicholas José.3 Imprisoned on more
than one occasion in Pendennis Castle and Launceston gaol, for his Quaker

1 For Falmouth in its Cornish context, see James Whetter, The History of Falmouth
(Redruth: Truran, 1981). For the Fox family in Falmouth, see T.H. Bradley, ‘The Fox Fam-
ily of Falmouth: Their contribution to Cornish Industrial History, 1640–1860,’ Cornwall
Association of Local Historians’ News Magazine 14 (October 1987): 9–17.
2 George Croker Fox I (1727–1782). His eldest son and grandson were identically named.
3 Copy of marriage certificate, Truro/CRO, Stephens of Ashfield Papers, ST/874.
 1 A FALMOUTH CHILDHOOD 3

convictions,4 Tregelles and his family faithfully maintained the Quaker tra-
dition and the ‘Tregelles meeting house’ is mentioned in the Falmouth
records of the late seventeenth century.5
One of John’s great-grandsons was Samuel Tregelles,6 our subject’s
grandfather, who established a rope factory in Ashfield, Budock, on the
outskirts of Falmouth, and whose links with the Fox family are well illus-
trated by the marriage of two of his younger sisters, Elizabeth (1768–1848)
and Mary (1770–1835), to Robert Were Fox (1754–1818) and Thomas
Were Fox (1766–1844), brothers of George Croker Fox II, whose father’s
shipping business we mentioned earlier. It is apparent from the minutes of
the Quaker regional monthly meetings that when Samuel Tregelles (the
owner of the rope factory) was about thirty-five years old, he was in trou-
ble with the Quaker authorities. In October 1801, he ‘came forward and
declared that he had departed from the standard of truth and rectitude’. On
consideration of the circumstances, details of which were not recorded, the
Quakers disowned him in December for ‘grossly immoral conduct’. When
more than two years later, in March 1804 he asked for readmission to the
Society, the application remained a matter for discussion for a further six
months.7
Of his many children, the eldest son Samuel (1789–1828), the father of
our subject, is an elusive figure about whom there is little recorded informa-
tion. However, his standing among the Falmouth Friends doesn’t seem to
have been affected by his father’s misconduct and, a few years later, when
he announced (21 November 1810) his intention of marrying Dorothy
Prideaux (1790–1873), the Friends monthly meeting (19 December 1810)
raised no objection and gave their approval.8

4 The Friend 6 (1848) 98; 80 (1907) 367; cited in ‘Dictionary of Quaker Biography’
[DQB] (typescript in London/LSF); see Mary Coate, Cornwall in the Great Civil War and
Interregnum, 1642–1660: A Social and Political Study (Oxford: Clarendon, 1933), 348.
5 Susan Gay, Old Falmouth: The Story of the Town … (London: Headley Brothers, 1903),
40.
6 10 June 1766–1763 June 1831. In 1787 he married Rebecca Smith who died 6 August
1811, aged 45.
7 Minutes of the West Cornwall Monthly Meeting, November 1801–October 1804
(Truro/CRO, Society of Friends Archive, SF/105). Confusingly, SPT’s grandfather is here
referred to as ‘Samuel Tregelles, junior’ because his uncle Samuel Tregelles (1725–1805) was
still living.
8 Minutes October 1808–March 1813 (Truro/CRO, SF/108), in which the designation
‘Samuel Tregelles, junior’ is now assigned to SPT’s father.
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Exploring the Variety of Random
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 Both boys shook their heads listlessly. Ken remarked, “You know
my dad. When he puts his foot down it’s like the Rock of Gibraltar.”
“With me,” informed Nuthin’, “it’s my mother. She actually wept,
so my father wouldn’t give me permission.”
“It’s a shame,” repeated Paul. “At any rate, you two can come
along and watch us. You can at least get all the ground work.”
The boys mounted their bicycles and were off. At the airport,
they were greeted by Major McCarthy. “Hello, fellows,” he called.
“Hello, Major,” answered several.
“Did you have a good time while I was away?”
“Very good,” said Paul.
“And interesting,” informed William.
Jack spoke. “We went camping.”
“That should have been enjoyable and interesting,” commented
the major. Then he asked the most pertinent question. “Are you
ready for flying instructions?”
The boys shouted lustily and eagerly, “Yes, yes.”
“All of you have the permission of your parents?”
Paul answered for the group. “All except two—Ken Armstrong
and Albert Cypher.”
“Hmm,” mused the major. “That’s too bad.” He looked at the two
unfortunate boys and they appeared very ill at ease. To cheer them
the major said, “Well, not everyone can be a pilot. Some of us have
to do other work, quite naturally. So we’ll make mechanics out of
you. How about it?”
The boys smiled gratefully. “Thank you, sir,” answered Ken. “I’d
love nothing better.”
“That’s settled, then,” said McCarthy. “Now, fellows, I have some
good news for you. I’ve made inquiries about obtaining a plane for
you boys and I have one definitely in mind. It’s a good machine, in
perfect order and perhaps in a week or so it may be yours.”
“Yea!” shouted William and all the boys joined in. The major held
up his hand and motioned for silence. “Cheering is all to the good,
fellows, but if you want flying instructions, we have no time to lose.”
“Those are just our sentiments,” commented Jack joyously.
“Now,” began the major, “I’m to spend about an hour or so
explaining in detail the major parts of an airplane. I want to teach
you to be not only pilots but your own mechanics. If something
should happen to a plane you’re flying, I want you to know how to
go about repairing the motor or anything else that may be wrong.
For that reason I want you to spend a lot of your spare time fussing
with an old plane, which is used just for that purpose. It is situated
in the corner hangar.” He paused for several seconds, then
continued. “Now about flying instructions. I can’t instruct more than
one of you at a time and no more than two each day. So you’ll have
to pair off and you’ll all get a lesson every other three days—that is,
two lessons a week. Is that understood?”
“Yes!” shouted the boys in unison.
“Very well, then, I’m going into the office for a couple of minutes.
In the meanwhile you can pair off and also decide which pair will get
their instructions today, which tomorrow and the day after.”
To pair off, the boys drew lots. Three sets of small pieces of
paper were prepared, the two pieces of each set numbered one, two
and three. The two boys who drew number one were partners,
numbers two and three likewise. The number one pair was to
receive its flying instructions that day, number two on the following
day, and number three the day after. As it turned out, Paul and
William were the number one pair, Jack and Bobolink number two
and Wallace and Bluff number three. The drawing of lots was fair
enough and there were no murmurs of disapproval or dissatisfaction.
When the major came out again, he showed that he approved of
what was done. In a group he marched them over to the hangar
which housed the old plane and for about an hour he lectured to
them on the mechanics of an engine. When he was through, he sent
them home for lunch. Then he told the first pair, Paul and William, to
be back at the airport at three o’clock for flying instructions.
 As the boys were mounting their bikes, Jack whispered to his
chum, “Fall behind with me, Paul, I have something to tell you.”
Paul nodded. Wheeling along about ten feet behind the others,
he asked, “What is it, Jack?”
“It’s this, Paul. This morning I happened to glance through the
Dispatch and I came across a small article stating that last
Wednesday it was discovered that several hundred army rifles were
stolen from an armory in New York and that the crime had most
likely been committed within the past twenty-four hours.”
“What about it?”
Jack pursed his lips, mused for a moment, then said, “Remember,
Paul, last Wednesday morning was when Wallace saw that airplane
land at that mysterious airport.”
Paul cried, “By golly, that’s correct. Do you really think that they
are arms smugglers and that this theft of army rifles has any
connection with that airplane landing at the mysterious airport?”
“I don’t know,” answered Jack. “I’m wondering. But if you stop to
consider, the parts seem to fit the puzzle mighty well.”
“You’re right Jack. What do you think we ought to do? Do you
think we ought to take Major McCarthy into our confidence?”
Shaking his head, he replied, “No, I don’t think so. He might
either tell it to the police and we don’t have enough evidence for
that; or he might fly over there, land, and possibly complicate
everything.”
Again Paul agreed with his chum, adding, “Yes, we have to follow
it up slowly. Another thing, we must learn how to fly darn quick
because if we want to get anything on them we have to do it in their
way—by air.”
“Correct,” said Paul. “For the present, we’ll just let matters take
their own course.”
All the boys saw fit that afternoon to be at the airport. Only Paul
and William were to go up for flying instructions but the others
wanted to be there to see what it was like. At a little past three, the
major came out of the office and approached the group of boys. The
two boys stepped forward and William informed him, “We’re ready,
major, if you are.”
Smiling, he said, “That’s fine. But now that you’re all here, I’m
going to tell you something about flying.” All the boys gathered in
front of him, forming a semi-circle. Very quietly and seriously they
listened to every word he said. “The first thing I want to impress
upon you, fellows,” he began, “is that flying is not in the least
dangerous, providing, of course, you adhere strictly to the rules and
regulations of flying. Everything has its rules which you must
observe, flying is not an exception. The most important rule in flying
is that you must never risk stalling your machine near the ground. At
no time must you lose flying speed until you are at a safe altitude—
approximately five hundred feet above ground.
“Now suppose your engine cuts out as you are taking off, then
what you must do is to push the nose down and go straight ahead,
regardless of what is in front of you. If you cannot avoid running
into a shed, or a tree, or any other obstacle, while landing, it just
can’t be helped. You will smash the machine but you yourself will
not be hurt. Another rule to remember is, never turn back in order to
return to the airport or some other good landing ground. When you
do that you risk stalling your machine. And when you stall near the
ground, you usually lose control of your machine, go into a spin and
crash nose first into the ground. And that may be the last time you
will ever fly.”
“Those are a few elementary rules of flying. You’ll learn more as
you go along. What you must understand is that you must always
obey these rules, or take the consequences. I don’t want to frighten
you, but there are rules in every game and you have to observe
them.”
He stopped and scanned the faces of the boys. From every
indication, they had taken his words seriously and were convinced
by his authoritative tone of voice. Nothing more to say, the major
now called upon his first two pupils and inquired, “Are you ready?”
“Ready!” the two boys answered in unison and precision.
“Which one is going up first?”
 “We’ll have to choose,” answered Paul.
Major McCarthy took a coin out of his pocket and tossed it into
the air. “Heads,” cried William.
“Tails,” cried Paul.
Heads it was and William was the first to go up for instructions.
“Very well,” announced the major, “let’s go.”
The whole group followed the major and William to one of the
hangars. Two mechanics pushed the training plane into the open.
Again the major turned to the group and said, “This is an Avro, one
of the finest training machines in the world. She is light on the
controls, very easy to handle and has an 80 h.p. Le Rhone engine.
What kind of an engine is it, anybody know?”
William answered at once, with confidence, “A rotary engine.”
“Fine,” said the major. “And what kind of engine is a rotary
engine?”
All the boys seemed to know that and the major was pleased by
their knowledge. However, he called upon William to answer the
question. “A rotary engine is one which has the cylinders rotate
round the crankshaft which remains stationary,” answered William
correctly.
“And what is another type of engine?”
“A stationary engine.”
“The crankshaft rotates round the cylinders.”
“Correct,” announced the major with a gleam of satisfaction in his
eyes. “I can see,” he added, “that I’m going to enjoy teaching you
boys. All right William, put this hat on and get the ear pieces in the
right position; I’ll be talking to you all the time. And before we start,
remember this, if I hit you on the back take your hands and feet off
the controls immediately and put your hands above your head which
will show me that you have obeyed my signal. Okey?”
Wallace remarked, humorously, “Don’t hit him too hard, major.
I’d hate to take home a corpse.”
 Major McCarthy withdrew to the shed telling William to get into
the front seat. When he had climbed into the rear seat, he said,
“Now William, don’t touch the controls until I tell you to. In the
meanwhile you can watch them working because both sets of
controls are connected and work simultaneously. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
The boys at the shed cheered lustily and William waved his hand
as Major McCarthy took off. The machine rose lightly into the air and
was mounting fast into a clear sky, smoothly and easily as a bird.
William, was at first nervous and tense, but soon he relaxed, his
whole body seeming to vibrate to the rhythm of the machine.
Suddenly he felt a light bump on the back and he quickly threw his
hands up into the air. The major was rather surprised. Usually pupils
during their first lesson are too excited to remember the instructions
they have received. The major felt a glow of satisfaction, and hoped
that William would respond to all instructions so quickly.
They were about two thousand feet in the air. William felt a thrill
when he heard his instructor’s voice through the telephone. The
major was saying to him, “Okey, William, in a couple of minutes I’m
going to let you fly the machine and you must obey precisely all my
instructions. Put your hand on the joystick and your feet on the
rudder bar.”
He complied. The next instant he felt a bump on his back and
quickly he put his hands above his he had. McCarthy was delighted
with the boy’s quick response. “This boy,” he said to himself, “is a
natural born flyer.”
The major’s voice was coming over the telephone. “Okey,
William,” it said, “you’re going to fly the machine now. Only obey
instructions precisely.”
McCarthy spoke gently and authoritatively. William obeyed. The
machine responded to his slightest touch. William felt a certain
power in handling the machine and it thrilled him. The major said,
“Now when I give the command, ‘Right turn,’ you kick on the right
rudder and push the joystick over to the right. Ready? Now, ‘Right
turn.’ Keep the same altitude.”
 The major kept talking most of the time, explaining every
movement and demonstrating his instructions. They practiced
banking, climbing, diving. This was no ordinary pupil, the major
thought. He was aware that the other boys would not respond as
well as William, with whom he progressed much more than with the
average pupil. To satisfy himself for the last time, he permitted
William to fly alone for several minutes, then tapped the boy on the
back. Instantly the latter’s hands flew above his head. The major,
deeply satisfied, said, “That was very good, William. I think you’ve
had more than enough for the first lesson, so we’ll go back now.”
Thus saying, he took control of the machine.
The boys cheered as the plane taxied to a landing. As the
instructor and his pupil climbed out of the machine, the boys came
running up. “How did he do, major?” asked Wallace.
McCarthy smiled, very much pleased with his first pupil. “He did
very well,” he announced.
“Yea!” shouted Bobolink.
“Hooray for William!” shouted Ken and Nuthin’.
When the boys quieted down again, the major put his arm
affectionately on William’s shoulder, and said, “I don’t like to praise a
pupil, because he is apt to become cock-sure of himself. But this
time I can’t help praising him. William is a natural born flyer. I don’t
want any one of you to feel badly if you’re not as good as he is
because there are very few who take to flying spontaneously. I don’t
want you to blame yourselves or feel badly about it. It’s something
that none of us can help. We’re either born that way or not.”
Jack asked, “Did he fly by himself already?”
“He certainly did,” replied the major. “For about fifteen minutes
he flew the machine all by himself.”
The boys cheered, proud of their friend. William was thrilled, but
tried not to show it.
It was Paul’s turn now. Instructor and pupil took their respective
places in the machine. Paul was excited, tense. McCarthy was
curious to know how this boy would compare with William. He
repeated the directions for a second time. The machine was climbing
and they were gaining altitude. Paul was thrilled as he examined the
various gadgets on the dashboard. Suddenly he felt a bump on his
back. He was bewildered. What had happened. He turned around to
see McCarthy chuckling and enjoying the baffled look on his face.
The instructor said, “I told you to raise your hands above your head
as soon as I tap you on the back. Keep alive.” Paul settled back in
his seat, feeling ashamed of himself. Suddenly he again felt a tap on
the back. Immediately he raised his hands above his head. “Very
good,” said McCarthy encouragingly. Paul, too, would be a flyer, but
not like William.
Soon Paul was at the controls and flying the machine in response
to the instructor’s guidance. After the necessary instructions,
McCarthy called out, “Ready? Left turn.”
Paul pushed out his left foot. The machine whipped to the left at
a terrific speed. Suddenly he felt the stick being pushed over to the
left. Then the right rudder bar moved forward, the stick came back
to the right, now they were flying level once again. McCarthy had to
intervene to help him out. He explained the mistake and Paul
nodded, intimating that he understood. He was eager to do it over
again, to show that he could do it. But this time the command was,
“Right turn.” Paul got it all right.
After about thirty-five minutes of instructions, they returned to
the airport. They climbed out of the machine and McCarthy inquired,
“Well, how did you like it?”
“It was fine,” answered Paul grinning, “except that I think I was a
trifle dumb in responding.”
“Oh, no, you weren’t,” McCarthy answered him. “You were all
right. For about ten minutes you were flying all by yourself and I’m
very pleased with you.”
Walking toward the office building, the major commented, “I see
now that I’m going to enjoy teaching you boys. From the way it
looks, I should say that all of you are someday going to be mighty
fine flyers.”
“How long before we can go solo?”
“It all depends. About eight or ten lessons is the average.”
 CHAPTER XI

Baseball Game

During the following weeks, the boys spent the major part of
their time at the airport. Most of the boys were usually on hand
when one of them took off for a lesson. And if there was no lesson,
they spent their time dismantling the old plane and putting it
together again. Ken and Nuthin’ became assistants to Fred, the chief
mechanic. These two boys imparted their technical knowledge to
their comrades.
As for McCarthy, he was happy and really enjoyed instructing the
boys, because all of them responded so quickly to training. He
taught them everything he knew about flying and found that William
learned more easily than the others. McCarthy taught them to land,
to take off, to do a few simple stunts. After four lessons, William was
ready to solo. But his instructor wouldn’t permit him because
McCarthy wanted them all to go up solo the same day, making it in
the form of a graduation exercise.
In spite of their preoccupation in aviation, they spent many half
hours discussing the mysterious airport and its consequences.
Whatever evidence they had, however, was circumstantial and
insufficient. And they couldn’t think of taking time out to do anything
about it. The boys had other obligations, temporarily forgotten,
which also had to be considered.
 One day Paul called the boys together. Most of them were in
overalls, their hands dirty with grease and their faces smeared.
Looking at each other, they could not repress their smiles. Each in
his own way was rather a funny sight. Ken laughed. “Hey, fellows,
look at Bluff, will you?”
Bluff was wearing a pair of overalls that were much too large for
him and his face was smeared with grease. “You’re n-no Ap-p-pollo
yourself,” he countered.
Wallace asked, “What is it you want to talk to us about, Paul?”
“It’s this, fellows. We have been so busy the last few weeks,
what with getting flying instructions and spending most of our time
at the airport, that we have completely forgotten our baseball game
with the Slavin team. We haven’t practiced at all and the game is
only three days away.”
“Perhaps we can call the game off,” remarked William.
Several of the boys nodded in agreement, as their interest in
aviation was much stronger than any thought of baseball just then.
They were so engrossed in their work that any excuse was sufficient
to try to break an agreement. Paul, however, objected. He said, “I
fully know that all of us are more interested in our flying and all that,
but we can’t go back on our word. We promised Ted Slavin and his
team that we would play them and we’ve got to keep our word.”
Ken reminded the boys, “We also promised them a swimming
match. That’s something we ought to practice up for, too.”
Nuthin’ asked, “Well what do you think we ought to do, Paul?”
“We have to keep our word and go through with it,” was the
answer. “Beginning tomorrow, we have to keep away from the
airport and spend the next two days practicing.”
“What about those who have flying lessons?” Bobolink wanted to
know.
“Those who have lessons should not miss them,” answered Paul.
“But the rest of us will have to keep away from the airport.”
The boys agreed. William said, “All right, then. Tomorrow
morning we’ll meet at the baseball field for practice.”
 Major McCarthy was glad to hear of their plans for reasons of his
own. He was a bit skeptical of their sudden and overwhelming
interest in aviation, because he feared that they might drop it just as
suddenly and completely. Spending only limited periods of time at
the airport, therefore, would test them. Besides, the major was also
of the opinion that they were too young to have only one dominating
interest, it was healthier for them to have a series of interests.
During the following two days, they spent most of their time on
the baseball field. And when the day of the game arrived, they were
in pretty good shape. They had one worry, however. Wallace, star
pitcher for their team, had not come around all morning. They sent
William to find out what had become of him.
As the time for the game approached, a fair crowd of
townspeople had filled the stands. The Ted Slavin team with Ted as
pitcher, was warming up, and some of his followers were
encouraging him to demonstrate his famous slow ball. The opposing
team, however, was in great agitation. William, out of breath, came
running up. Paul guessed that William had accomplished nothing.
Nevertheless he asked, “Well, any news?”
William gasped, “No. My mother said he left for the airport in the
morning and that he hasn’t returned yet.”
“Did you call the airport?”
“I did and Fred told me that he left hours ago.”
Paul shook his head dejectedly. “Wonder what could have
happened to him?” he muttered.
The boys formed a circle around Paul. Someone asked, “You
think there is any chance of calling the game off?”
“No. What for? Suppose we lose the game, what difference
would it make? We’ll play just the same.” Most of the boys nodded in
agreement. Paul added, “All right, fellows, break it up. Let’s not
show that we’re handicapped and need anyone’s pity. We’ll hold our
own. Ken, are you warming up? You’re going into the box to start
the game.”
Ken nodded. “Okey. I’m ready.”
 Just then Major McCarthy came walking across the field. The
boys waved to him. Paul greeted him. “Hello, major.”
“Hello, Paul. Came over to see the game.” Paul took the major by
the arm and led him to one side.
“Wallace is missing,” he said. “He’s our star pitcher; without him,
we have no chance of winning. But that’s beside the point. I’m
worried about him. You have no idea what happened to him, do
you?”
The major shook his head. “Why, no,” he answered. “I gave him
a lesson and he left the airport at about ten. He even asked me to
come and watch him pitch the game.”
“I can’t imagine what could have happened to him. He’s nowhere
to be found and nobody seems to have seen him or heard from
him.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Is there anything I can do?”
Paul shook his head. “Guess not. You can sit on our bench
though, and watch the game.”
“That’s swell. Thanks a lot.”
Just then the umpire came up, followed by Ted Slavin. “Ready?”
asked the umpire.
Paul nodded. “Yes.”
“For up,” announced the umpire as he tossed a coin. The Slavin
team was to go to bat first. “Who’s your pitcher?” the umpire asked.
“Ken Armstrong.”
Ted raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “Where’s Wallace?” he
asked.
“He’ll be here in a short while. We’re saving him.”
Ted shrugged his shoulders. “Good luck,” he called as he walked
away.
“Same to you,” countered Paul.
Paul signalled to the boys to take the field. The umpire took his
place in the pitcher’s box and called, “Batter up!”
 Paul was catching. He motioned to Ken to meet him halfway. He
said, “Don’t let them discourage you. Let them hit; the boys out in
the field will back you up.”
They separated and returned to their respective positions. As Ken
poised, measuring up the first batter, a wave of applause and loud
cheering went up from the stands. His team-mates encouraged him.
“Alright, Ken, give it to him.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, boy. Let him smell it.”
“Sure. That guy’ll never see it.”
Paul signalled and Ken wound up. He took his time pitching the
first ball. The batter patted the home plate with the bat as the
umpire called, “Strike one!”
“That’s the boy, show him your dust.”
“Pity the poor guy! He’ll die without moving a leg.”
Ken wound up. He threw the ball. The batter gripped his bat,
swung it and ran toward first base. Ken stuck his gloved hand out
and pulled it in again. Everybody looked for the ball but nobody saw
where it went. The umpire called, “Out!” Then Ken took the ball
between his fingers and held it up for public inspection. A wave of
laughter rolled slowly across the field. The hit had been a fast level
one and Ken had snapped it out of the air so quickly that no one
saw it.
The second batter was at the plate. Ken poised; without winding
up, he pitched. The batter swung. It was a pop fly. Ken ran forward
several feet, caught the ball and threw it to Bluff at first base. The
ball then travelled to Bobolink at third, to William at second and back
to Ken.
The third batter was up. Ken took his time measuring up the
fellow. The batter stood at ease as the ball bounced with a plop into
the catcher’s mitt. The umpire called, “Strike one.” Paul signalled and
Ken threw the ball. The batter gripped his stick, but at the last
moment he shook his head and let it pass. “Ball one!” called the
umpire. The third ball came sailing down the line, fast, an inside
curve. The batter stepped back and swung. The ball sailed away far
out in left field. Nuthin’ saw the ball coming; he walked back several
steps, waited for the ball to drop into his glove, then threw it to
William at second.
The boys threw their gloves into the air as they ran in from the
field. “That’s the boy, Ken!” they called, “that’s showing them.”
Ted Slavin was pitching for his team. He was a good man.
Several semi-pro teams were out to sign him up but he held out. He
was now in good form and he struck out the first batter in three
pitched balls. The second batter made an attempt to hit the ball but
he merely scraped it and the ball went up into the air and was
caught by the catcher. The third man also struck out.
In the second inning, the Slavin team sent a man to first and
third but they died on base. Paul started off for his team with a
double but he died on third. During the next inning, the boys were
kept on their toes backing up Ken. A grounder to the shortstop
precipitated a double play to second and first. Ted, on the other
hand struck out his three batters in quick succession.
The fourth inning began with the Slavin team set to send in a
couple of runs. The first man up bunted and landed safely at first.
The second batter placed a swift grounder between the pitcher and
first base. Bluff went after it and threw the ball to second. William
tried hard to get it but it was far over his head. The spectators were
on their feet, yelling themselves hoarse. William dashed after the
ball and threw it, but the runner was already safe on third. Ken got
the ball. He looked at the men on second and third. Bobolink called,
“Don’t worry, Ken, they’ll die on base.”
Someone else called encouragingly, “Come on, fellow, show them
your speed.”
“Strike him out!”
Ken poised then pitched the ball. The batter swung and missed.
The next ball was a strike. The batter gripped his bat and swung as
the ball came hurtling through the air. Bobolink took several steps
forward and very easily gathered in the ball.
 Two men out and men on second and third. Paul signalled to Ken
and the two met midway between home plate and the pitcher’s box.
Ken inquired anxiously, “Well?”
Paul answered, “Nothing in particular. Just thought I’d give you a
minute to relax. Don’t worry if they hit you; it can’t be helped.
You’ve been doing swell so far.”
The pitcher nodded. “Okey. Thanks.”
Each walked back to his respective position. Ken poised, ready to
pitch. Paul signalled and the pitcher hurled the ball. The batter
looked unconcerned, but suddenly he tightened his grip on the bat
and swung. Crack! The sound was like a pistol shot. The ball sailed
high and far out into left field. Nuthin’ ran far back and as the ball
began to drop out of the air, he jumped. The crowd was on its feet,
hushed, its eyes glued to the ball. The men on base were running
toward home plate; the batter was already at second. Suddenly the
crowd gasped sounding like a wave breaking. Nuthin’ had missed the
ball by inches. He scampered after it and threw it wildly to second.
William ran for it but it was too wide. The spectators were shouting
madly; the Slavin team were dancing wildly as the man crossed
home plate safely.
The din and noise still sounded in his ears as Ken poised to pitch
again. He turned around to see if every player was in his place. But
it was totally unnecessary. He struck the batter out and that ended
the spectacle. Coming in from the field, the players managed to
smile, joke and even laugh. They slapped Ken on the back and told
him not to worry. It was their chance now and they would more than
get even.
The boys went to bat gripped with determination to send in some
runs but their enthusiasm was destroyed by Ted’s mastery in the
box. He teased the first batter with two balls and then struck him
out. When the second walked up to the plate, Ted repeated his
performance. The spectators cheered and his team-mates
encouraged him. Bobolink held his bat lightly and walked slowly to
the plate. The boys encouraged him. “Come on, Bobolink,” someone
shouted, “sock the old pill.”
 “Hit it a mile, boy!”
“Sock it, kid!”
Bobolink gripped the bat compressed his lips and waited for the
ball. Ted thought he again would repeat his former performance of
teasing the batter. He put over a fast ball, cutting the inside edges of
the plate. Bobolink stepped back and swung. The spectators jumped
to their feet, watching the ball sail through the air, while they held
their breaths. Bobolink was notably a hard hitter. Suddenly a shout
rumbled across the field. People cheered; others muttered their
disgust. The player in left field knew the batter’s ability to hit and
had moved far back. As the ball came sailing out, he was obliged to
run further back, suddenly he realized that the ball would come
down further on his right; the next second he lunged forward with
extended arm, caught the ball barehanded and held on to it as he
nearly tripped over himself. The inning was over and the players
came in from the field.
Ken walked to the pitcher’s box and Paul took his place behind
the home plate. An agitation rolled slowly through the stands. Play
for play, Ken and his players far outshone the other team. True
enough, Ted was doing some mighty fine pitching, but except for the
single catch, his team wandered about idle at their posts. The other
team, however, was of unequalled showmanship. Dramatically they
pulled the ball out of the air, off the ground, staged a double-play
that took people’s wind away. If only Wallace was in the box! Some
murmurs began to circulate. “Wallace! Where’s Wallace!” But he was
nowhere to be seen. The umpire called, “Batter up!”
Ken was piqued by all the muttering and mumbling around him.
The effect upon him was surprising; it steeled him. He relaxed.
Absolutely confident, he pitched superbly. Three men up, three men
out. Not one of them even so much as swung a bat. They were so
bewildered by the pitcher’s fury that they barely saw the ball whizz
by them and before they realized it, they heard the plop of the ball
in the catcher’s mitt.
Again the young aviators were at bat. The team determined to
break the spell and send in a couple of runs. The first batter bunted
and landed safely at first. Ted evidently sensed the determination of
his opponents, for he became ill at ease. To relax, he summoned the
catcher and they met midway; for several seconds they whispered to
each other, then returned to their respective positions. The batter
waited patiently for the pitcher to get going. Somebody in the stand
shouted, “Hit it, boy, sock it!”
“Sock it a mile!” someone else screamed.
Ted poised. He put all his strength into the ball as he hurled it.
The batter didn’t move a muscle. “Ball one!” called the umpire.
“Put it over!” someone shouted.
“Play ball!” shouted another.
Again Ted put all his strength into the ball. The batter gritted his
teeth. Crack! The hit was a straight and low one, directly between
the shortstop and third basemen. Both players went for it, collided
as they tried to pick it off the ground. The batter went to first and
the man on first went safely to second.
Ted was unnerved. “You have his mark!” someone in the stands
shouted.
“Hit it, hit it!” was the cry of someone else.
Ted spit on the ball. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the
man on first draw away from the base. Like a flash he wheeled and
threw the ball. The first baseman lunged wildly for the ball but he
missed by at least a foot. Shouts, cheers, groans rolled through the
stands. Jack, coaching, at first, danced wildly and screamed, “Run,
run!” Each man advanced a base.
Ken was up. He felt that now was the time to even the score. He
had to do something. With a man on second and third, no outs, now
was their chance. But Ted rallied sufficiently to strike the batter out.
Once more Ted became confident and self-assured. There was no
danger, he thought; he will strike the next two men out and show
his mettle. But his confidence deceived him. The batter picked the
first ball and hit a long fly which was caught, but which helped the
man on third to come home and the man on second to advance to
third base. Ted was now sufficiently unnerved to realize it himself.
He signalled to a player on the sidelines; he waited until the relief
pitcher began to come across the field, then started to walk off
himself.
“Yea!” shouted a spectator.
“Knock this guy out of the box, too,” another spectator screamed.
“Swell showman,” said Paul.
“You said it,” agreed Jack. “He knows when to quit and that’s to
his credit.”
The relief pitcher warmed up with a couple of throws. Finally the
umpire called, “Batter up!”
Nuthin’ touched the home plate with his bat, held up the stick
vertically for a fraction of a second, as a signal to the man on base,
and then waited for the pitcher. The man in the box was perfectly
confident and took his time. It was a trick to vex the batter and
force him to strike, but Nuthin’ was a patient fellow and he waited.
The first ball came over, at least a foot outside the plate. “Ball one!”
called the umpire. The catcher threw back the ball and Nuthin’ let
fall the bat off his shoulder. The pitcher eyed the man on third base;
then turned to the batter. Nuthin’ gripped the bat. Shifting his
position slightly, he struck at the ball. It was a foul, a couple of yards
off third base. “That’s the boy!” someone shouted.
“You got his number!” was another encouraging phrase hurled by
someone in the stands.
His team-mates encouraged him. “Hit it, Nuthin’. Just sock it
once,” Bobolink urged.
The pitcher was not to be dissuaded from his easy going manner.
And similarly Nuthin’ was not to be vexed; he was willing to wait,
though he realized how much depended upon him. If he managed at
least to send home the man on base, his team would be sufficiently
encouraged to possibly even the score; if he was struck out, on the
other hand, they might not get a similar chance again for the rest of
the game. But all that didn’t confuse him. The next ball was wide
and he didn’t move a muscle. The umpire called “Ball two!” The next
ball he lunged at, and again fouled. “Strike two!” called the umpire.
 The spectators in the stands sat hushed, waiting and watching.
His team-mates hoped for the best, but they, too, remained silent.
The pitcher hurled the ball. Nuthin’ watched it coming and thought it
would be too wide; the next instant he realized his mistake; the ball
curved and cut the edge of the plate. “Strike three and out!” called
the umpire.
The score was 3-1, in favor of the Slavin team. And so it
remained for awhile. The game now became quieter and more
steady; no dramatics. Ted returned to the box and resumed his old
form; he didn’t give out a single hit. Similarly with Ken who was the
sort of person who, the more he was pushed to the wall and the
greater the odds against him, the surer he was of himself. He held
his opponents down to two bits and both men died on base.
The beginning of the seventh inning revealed that both teams
still had plenty of fight in them and were out to make this a most
exciting and dramatic game. The first batter of the Slavin team
poised at the plate, swung at the first ball that came along and hit a
fast, low-flying ball that shot past like a bullet about three feet above
Ken’s head. William, at second, lifted himself off the ground and
pulled the ball out of the air. It all happened so quickly and suddenly
that the spectators were left with their mouths open, so bewildered
were they. They revived soon enough, however, to cheer William for
his perfect, most beautiful catch.
Ken struck out the second batter in short order but the next man
sent the ball whistling across the ground toward third, base.
Bobolink scooped it off the ground and hurled it across the diamond
to Bluff. The latter, however, had to step back a couple of feet to
catch the ball and the runner safely crossed first base.
With a man on base, the Slavin team thought they had Ken
where they wanted him. Although his team had a safe lead of two
points, Ted wanted to increase his score still more. The next man at
bat succeeded in getting hit by the ball and the umpire sent him to
first, thus pushing the other man over to second. Paul signalled his
friend to forget the men on base and to pitch ball. Ken nodded. He
sent over a fast one that burned the plate in half. The umpire called,
“Strike one!” And his team-mates cheered him. The next one was a
ball, followed by a slow one which the batter lifted far out into right
field. The spectators were lifted out of their seats, their eyes glued
to the ball. The fielder ran back a few yards and dug his shoes into
the ground directly under the ball which flopped right into his glove.
A shout went up from the stands and his team-mates threw their
gloves into the air as they ran off the field.
Bluff was at bat. He was anxious to hit and he waited for his
favorite ball—one that was low and cut the edge of the plate. But
Ted knew his weakness and Bluff waited in vain; he was struck out.
William, raging mad, came up to the plate. He vowed to hit a homer
or die in the attempt. His mates cheered him and several voices in
the stands urged him on. Ted put all he had into the ball and sent it
whistling through the air; William set himself as though he were
going to take, then shook his head sadly and let the ball cut the
plate. Ted imagined he had the batter fooled and he again sent a
fast one over. But it was just what William wanted and he smashed a
swift grounder between the pitcher and the shortstop. Ted saw it
was useless for him to go for it, so he watched the shortstop lunge
for it, but in vain. The ball skimmed past several inches beyond his
fingers. The man at second ran out to stop the ball, picked it off the
ground and poised to throw it but no one covered second. He ran for
the plate. William dived and grasped the base with his fingers. The
umpire called loud and clear, “Safe!”
Bobolink was the next man up. Paul patted him on the back and
said, “It’s up to you now, fellow. Don’t disappoint the crowd.”
Bobolink gritted his teeth and said nothing. Some spectators
screamed madly, “Come on, Bob, kill it, sock it.”
Ted looked around and waited until all his men were in position.
Ready to pitch, he seemed unconcerned with the man on second. He
shot over a fast one, the catcher grabbed it and got into position to
throw; he hesitated, waiting for William to make a move for third
base; but he was disappointed and reluctantly returned the ball to
Ted. Again the pitcher made a mistake, throwing a ball he thought
the batter would let pass. Bobolink, however, gripped his bat and hit
far out into left field. William had his foot on the bag and waited.
The fielder ran in for the ball; confident that the catch was his, he
waited for the fly to drop into his glove. It did. Suddenly a deep, cry
went up from the stands. The man had muffed and the ball fell to
the ground. He lunged for it and threw it to second. William was
already on his way to try home plate. The man at second wheeled
swiftly around and shot the ball home. William measured his size on
the ground; he touched the base a fraction of a second before the
catcher tagged him. And Bobolink was safe on second.
The score now stood 3-2, in favor of the Slavin team. Paul
shouted joyfully, “Now is our chance; we’ll even the score yet.”
His enthusiasm, however, got the better of him, for his prophecy
did not come true. Ted made short work of the next batter and the
seventh inning was ended with the score still in favor of the Slavin
team.
Nothing happened during the eighth inning. Beginning the ninth,
Ted and his players determined to widen the margin. But all their
efforts were futile because Ken held them to one hit, a single, and
the man went no further than second. Their last chance to even the
score or win the game, the young aviators were cheered and
encouraged by many spectators. Ted and his players were dead set
against a single run. The game was theirs, they felt, and they
wouldn’t let it slip away from them.
The first batter up struck at the ball twice and fouled both times.
Ted pitched again and the batter was struck out. Jack was up next
and he hit a beautiful grounder to the shortstop. The umpire
declared him out. Two out. The game now depended on the last
man at bat. Some people in the stands rose and left. Paul stepped
up to the plate. Ted poised, then sent the ball whistling through the
air. Paul let it pass and the umpire called out, “Strike one!” Again Ted
sent a scorching one across the plate and again the umpire called it
a strike. Hit or miss, Paul had to do something. He held the bat
lightly but gripped it as the ball came sailing through the air. He
struck at it—and missed. The game was over. The score was 3-2 in
favor of the Slavin team.
 The losers gathered in a circle and cheered the victors. The
winning team gathered around Ted and cheered the losers. The
spectators cheered both teams. It was a dramatic and exciting
game, well worth winning—and losing.
 CHAPTER XII

What Happened to Wallace

Ted Slavin came over and shook hands with Paul. Smiling, he
said, “Too bad we had to beat you, but someone had to win, Paul.”
“You deserve it; you played a fine game.”
“I can say the same for you. Ken pitched a marvelously good
game. But what puzzles me is what happened to Wallace?”
Paul cast his eyes down. “That’s something that is puzzling us
too, Ted.”
“What do you mean?” Ted looked concerned. “Did anything
happen to him?”
“I hope not but we don’t know.”
“Gee, that’s too bad. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t think so. But if there is, I’ll call on
you.”
“Be sure you do. If there is anything the boys and I can do, Paul,
and you don’t let us know, I’ll be terribly angry.”
“Thanks. It’s mighty nice of you.”
“That’s perfectly okey. And don’t forget we have a swimming
match scheduled for a week from today.”
“Sure, I know.”
 The boys shook hands and parted. Paul walked over to the bench
where his team-mates were. The boys surrounded him, looking for
guidance. William posed the question that bothered them all. “What
are we going to do about Wallace, Paul?”
“I really don’t know. There’s nothing we can do right now, I
guess.”
Jack spoke up. “I suggest that we all go home, wash up and
have supper. In the meanwhile we’ll relax and be able to think
clearly. Let’s all try and imagine what may have happened to him. At
seven o’clock we’ll all meet again and try to formulate some plan of
action.”
“Yes, but what am I going to tell my mother if she asks me about
Wallace?”
Everyone was silent, not knowing what to say. They were all
pretty well downcast. Jack again spoke up, saying, “Tell her he’s
staying for supper at my home.” A pause. Silence. Every mind with
the same thought. He added. “It’s not the truth but you’re justified.
I’m sure he’ll turn up very soon.”
The boys stirred in their tracks. There was nothing more to say
and they all walked off the field.
But what had happened to Wallace? Let us go over the day’s
events and find out.
Wallace completed his flying lesson at about nine-thirty. He
mounted his bicycle and quickly left the airport, eager to return to
town to be with the boys who depended upon him to pitch in the
game. He peddled along steadily. Just as he was about to enter the
outskirts of the town, he heard a hissing sound. Jumping off his
wheel, he discovered that his rear tire was fast going flat. There was
nothing to do but walk and push his bike along. Less than a quarter
of a mile further on, he came to Jim’s filling station and he decided
that he might as well patch his tire right then and there. He found
Jim busy greasing a car. “Hello, there,” he called out, “how’re the
young aviators getting along?”
 “Fine, Jim. Do you mind if I use your shop to patch a hole in my
tire?”
“Not at all. Help yourself.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
Wallace walked into the shop. He knew where to find the
materials and tools he needed. Losing no time, he set himself to his
job. It didn’t take him long. Then in about ten minutes, as he was
coming out of the shop, he stopped dead in his tracks. He was just
inside the doorway and he saw Jim gassing a Ford roadster. But it
was the man at the wheel that caused him to freeze in his tracks. It
was the stranger—the man who had tried to convince them to move
camp up in the mountains. Wallace for the moment forgot all about
the baseball game and thought only of how he could follow the man.
He quickly stored the bicycle away in a corner where it wouldn’t be
noticed, then he entered the office through the shop and emerged
by the opposite door which placed him in a strategic position behind
the wall. Wallace heard the grind of the gears as the driver started
off. As the car passed him, he sprang forth and jumped onto the
bumper in back of the car, holding tightly to the spare tire.
Wallace wondered where the driver was heading, when suddenly
the car made a right turn and Wallace realized that this was the road
to the mountain. For some seconds he was worried as well as
mystified. If the driver was going up to the mountain, there was no
telling when he would return and Wallace became afraid that he
might miss the game. On the other hand, his curiosity was aroused,
for he knew that the road ran for about five miles to the foot of the
mountain and then it became a foot path. How then could he go all
the way up in the car? The only alternative was to wait and see.
Wallace hung on for dear life. At approximately a quarter of a
mile before the end of the road, there was a farm house. As far as
he knew, no one lived there. Yet a driveway, which appeared to be in
constant use, led off the road and was kept closed by a double-door
gate. The car turned off the road into this driveway without stopping
and the automobile pushed the doors apart. The doors of the gate
were on swinging hinges, and swung back again into place as soon
as the automobile passed. In the meanwhile the car proceeded to
the back of the house. Wallace feared that he might be discovered,
yet there was nothing he could think of doing, should he be noticed.
To his relief, however, the car kept moving beyond the house, passed
between two large elm trees and then came out on a one lane dirt
road. Looking back, Wallace saw that the dirt road was entirely
hidden by trees and could not be seen from the main road. He
marveled at the deception and cleverness of the gang of arms
smugglers—for by now he was convinced that they were arms
smugglers—and wondered whether it was worth it for them to go
such lengths of deception. But the fact that they did, showed that
they must have considered it worth the trouble and expense.
In the meanwhile, the car rode along, the wheels sinking into
holes and bouncing over rocks. More than one time Wallace was
nearly thrown, but he managed to hold on. On either side of the dirt
road were the woods. The road turned and twisted in many
directions but always headed toward where he was sure the cave
was situated. Judging by the speed and the time, the car had gone
about ten miles beyond the main road. The driver stopped suddenly,
leaving the car in the middle of the road. In the next instant the
stranger was out of the car and at once entered the woods. His
heart palpitating, Wallace hid behind the car and waited. He was
anxious not to lose his man but he was still more anxious not to be
caught. Who knows what they might do to him if they ever laid
hands on him! Arms smugglers were obliged by necessity to be
tough, hard men and would have no mercy on anyone who might
give them away. Wallace shuddered as these thoughts flew through
his mind. Yet he was undaunted and would not turn back.
When several minutes had elapsed, and he thought it was time,
Wallace crept out from behind the car and darted into the woods,
following the trail of the stranger. He had no difficulty following him.
Several times he even caught a glimpse of the man’s form. Finally
the trail led him to the edge of the woods—to the mysterious airport.
Hesitating for several seconds and trying to think fast what to do
next, he watched the man walk diagonally across the clearing,
heading directly for the spot where he and Jack had overheard the
stranger and the chief. Wallace decided that he had only one
alternative: to make his way along the edge of the woods and get
there in time enough not to lose his prey. Wallace sprinted, running
lightly and noiselessly. At the same time he tried to keep the
stranger in sight. It wasn’t easy because his vision was usually
obstructed by the trees and low hanging branches. Also, he had to
watch carefully where he was running. Suddenly the sound as of a
pistol shot echoed through the stillness of the woods. Wallace dived
and hid behind a clump of bushes. Finally he realized that it was only
the sound of a twig which broke as he stepped on it.
Breathless, Wallace waited for the echo to subside and for the
stillness of the woods again. At last when he thought it was safe to
creep out of his hiding, he crawled over to the edge of the clearing.
He looked, but the stranger had already disappeared. Terribly
disappointed, Wallace lay there watching, waiting. Finally he decided
to approach the spot where the stranger had most likely entered the
woods. Trying to move along noiselessly, Wallace came to the very
spot where he and Jack had lain hiding. He found the rifle just
where they dropped it. Moving on a little further, he came upon a
footprint that pointed directly at a clump of foliage. He examined it
very carefully. Putting his arm out, he tried to move a small bush but
found that it was attached to what seemed a board. His heart beat
wildly and he became numb with excitement. Looking further he
found several boards attached together into a sort of door, to which
were attached many pieces of foliage that entirely hid it. Moving his
fingers to its very edge, he could tell that the door swung away from
the entrance of the cave against which it rested. He felt like jumping
into the air and screaming, “Eureka, I’ve found it!”
Controlling himself, he hastily moved away and picked a position
about five feet away from the entrance of the cave. From where he
lay on his stomach, hidden by a clump of bushes, he could see
anyone who might enter or leave the cave; he could also overhear
anything that might be said, even if the speakers conversed in
whispers. Taking further stock of himself, he concluded that there
was no way of his getting back to town in time for the game. He had
a fifteen mile walk which would take him about five hours. Besides,
since he was already here and had come upon the cave, he wanted
to wait around a while to see what might happen. Surely the
stranger was inside, as he most certainly did not make the trip for
nothing. Something was bound to happen. Wallace therefore made
himself as comfortable as he could and waited.
After what seemed to be hours of dead quiet, he suddenly
became conscious of an airplane overhead. He dropped to the
ground again and hid behind the bushes. Looking up, he saw a small
monoplane circling overhead. Some moments later it glided to a
landing at the mysterious airport. A man climbed out of the cockpit
and walked across the clearing toward the cave. Wallace now turned
to watch the entrance of the cave. As he looked the foliage swung
back and revealed an entrance about four feet high and three feet
wide. The stranger, bent over, emerged from the cave, waiting for
the pilot to appear. Coming into view, the stranger greeted, “Hello,
Chief!”
“Hello, Bud!” The other returned.
The pilot was the same “Chief” that Wallace and Jack had seen
before. He made a motion to enter the cave but Bud stopped him,
saying. “Let’s stay out here, Chief. It’s awful hot there.”
The chief nodded, “Okey,” he answered. “I ain’t gonna stay but a
couple of minutes.” And they squatted at the entrance.
“What’s the dope?”
“Not much. Just wanted to tell you to clear everything out of
here and lay low for a while.”
“What’s the matter? The law catching up with us?”
“Naw, they’ll never get us. It’s at the other end. They still didn’t
dispose of the last shipment. So there ain’t nothing for us to do for a
while.”
“Hm. Well, it’ll be like a vacation.”
“Yeah. Make the most of it.”
 For a short while there was silence. Finally Bud asked, “When do
you figure we’ll make another shipment?”
“In about ten days or two weeks.”
“Guess I’ll run over to the city for about a week and kill some
time enjoying myself.”
“Suit yourself,” answered the chief languidly.
Wallace trembled with excitement. He could barely control
himself. The chief rose and muttered, “Guess I’ll be going now.”
Bud also rose and said, “Guess I’ll go too.”
“Got everything cleaned out of there?”
“Clean as a whistle.”
“Okey.”
Bud pushed the door, with its attached foliage against the mouth
of the cave and walked off. Wallace became frantic. He had to get to
the car before he left or else he would have to walk. He had to run
by way of the woods while Bud crossed the clearing. Just as soon as
he thought it was safe, he sprinted away. He hoped that Bud would
stop to talk with the chief for a while, which would give him the
necessary time to make it. He ran swiftly and noiselessly because if
he made any sound and was detected, it would be too bad. Wallace
came upon the car just about half a minute before Bud. He hid
behind the tree and hitched onto the car. They returned via the
same route. Just as they hit the main road, Wallace jumped off. He
figured it was much safer if he hiked the five miles into town.
 CHAPTER XIII

The Cave

William, wearing a long face, hesitated as he mounted the steps

to the porch of his home. A thousand questions filled his mind which
he was afraid his mother might ask, and he searched for possible
answers. Slumping into a chair, he tried to think how to meet any
situation that might arise. At the same time he was worried about
his brother and wondered what might have happened to him. He
didn’t hear his mother come out on the porch. Her voice startled him
as she asked, “What are you sitting out here for, William?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Just like that, mother. Resting up.”
“Did you win the game?”
“No. No, mother, we lost.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She looked at him and saw how
miserable he felt imagining that it was because of the lost game.
She tried to cheer him up by saying, “Don’t feel so badly, son. It’s
not so terrible to lose a game.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Where is Wallace?”
The question came suddenly and hit him like a bombshell. He
expected it, yet he was caught off guard. Hesitating, trying to think
of the exact words he was going to utter he finally said, “He went
with Jack; said he’d stay there for supper.”
 “Very well.” She smiled down at him. “You’d better go and wash
up.”
He rose and entered the house. He took a shower and changed
his clothes and fussed, trying very hard to delay his coming down to
the dining room. When he heard his mother call him for the second
time, he left his room and descended the stairs. Entering the dining
room his eyes almost popped out of his head to see his twin brother
and Jack at the table. His father noticed the look of consternation on
his face and asked, “Anything wrong, son? You look pale.”
“No, Dad. I feel fine and dandy.” Trying to keep his voice level as
possible, he asked, “I thought you were staying at Jack’s for
supper?”
Wallace had a mouthful. “Changed our minds,” he mumbled.
William was overjoyed. Passing behind his brother’s chair, Wallace
got poked in the head. It was a signal of affection rather than of
anger. Sitting down at the table, William was all smiles and suddenly
he remembered that he was terribly hungry.
When the boys met, Wallace was attacked with a million
questions, but at first he wouldn’t answer a single one. When the
time came, he told his story. A lot of discussion ensued. One thing
was agreed upon by all, however. They had to go and investigate the
cave while they had the chance. Tomorrow was Sunday. So they
would leave in the afternoon, camp out for the night and return the
following day. After deciding upon the plan, Nuthin’ raised another
question. “Don’t you think it’s about time we informed the police or
government agents?” he asked.
Paul answered quickly and precisely. “No. Absolutely no.”
“W-w-why not?” queried Bluff.
“For a thousand reasons,” replied Paul. “But one is sufficient. If
we tell the police, they’ll most likely put some guards there and the
secret will leak out, then that gang will get wise and beat it.”
That seemed to satisfy most of them but Nuthin’ was insistent.
“But what can we do by ourselves?” he demanded.
“We’ll just have to wait and see.”
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