"Look here, Mr. Fulton," began Jerry, almost stammering in his eagerness. "It wouldn't be any trick at all to get over to the interurban tracks in time to catch the four o'clock northbound. That gets to Watertown at four twenty-five--say half-past. We ought to be able to get the gas and rout out a machine to haul it in inside another half hour. That's five o'clock. Then an hour certainly would see us back here, with a good hour and more of daylight left."

"I've gone over all that in my mind a dozen times. But I've also spent a little time figuring what these men would be doing in the meanwhile.

There's just one place in Watertown that keeps any quant.i.ty of gasoline--the rest buy of him. And he'd die of fright if he should be caught with more than a hundred gallons at one time."

"But we don't need more than five!" exploded Tod.

"Sure, son, sure. But suppose somebody just ahead of you made it his business to buy the hundred--how about that?"

"But there's a chance," objected Jerry, returning to the attack. "We might be able to get away without their seeing us."

"Don't worry; they're watching every move we make."

"Then I've got another scheme. See if you can pick it full of holes too." There was more than a touch of impatience in Jerry's voice.

"They're watching this side, that's sure; and they know we're bound to figure on either Watertown or Chester. We'll fool them. I'll swim across to the other side, reach a telephone, get my dad, who's at Corliss these days on business. There's a Standard Oil tank at Corliss.

Dad'll start the gas out inside of twenty minutes----"

"Corliss is a good two hours' trip by auto, my boy. It would take at least half an hour to get the message through, and another to get the gas here from the road. That means at least seven o'clock, and it would be dark before we were ready to go up."

"All right," agreed Jerry, refusing to give up. "Suppose it does get dark: there's such a thing as flying by night, isn't there? All we've got to do is to build a dozen flaring bonfires to see by----"

"Now you're talking!" exclaimed Mr. Fulton with sudden enthusiasm.

"You've hit it. Not brush--that would smoke us out. But there are ten or a dozen open air torches here like those they use at street shows, and there's not enough water in the gasoline to hurt it for that purpose. Moreover, we can switch our engine onto that dynamo in the shop, and we'll string incandescent lights all through the trees; we've got plenty of them. There's at least a mile of bare copper wire about the place--what you two standing with your mouths wide open for?

Thought you were going to get that gas! Where in thunder are all those boys?"

"Here they come--tired of waiting out there in the sun, I guess. So long, dad; I'm going with Jerry."

"You are _not_. You're going to be chief electrician. If Jerry can't put through his part of the job alone he doesn't deserve credit for having thought of the whole scheme."

The first part of Jerry's task proved easy enough. It took him well over the half hour Mr. Fulton had predicted, to find a farmhouse with a telephone, and Central seemed an unusually long time in ringing through to the office Jerry's father had been making his headquarters for the past weeks. Then it developed that Mr. Ring was out at a conference of business men. Jerry took the telephone number the girl gave him, and repeated it to Central, who again took her time in giving the connection. Jerry was about ready to drop with nervousness before he finally heard his father's gruff voice at the other end of the line.

The words simply tumbled over themselves as Jerry told his story; fortunately, Mr. Ring was shrewd enough to guess the half that Jerry jumbled in his eagerness.

"Where are you--so I can call you back?" was Mr. Ring's only reply.

Fifteen minutes later the telephone rang. Jerry answered, to hear: "Ten gallons of gasoline, double strained, left here five minutes ago on a fast delivery truck. It ought to reach the road opposite Lost Island inside of two hours. You be there to tell them what to do. Good luck, Jerry--I'm going back to that conference. This skylark may cost me a five hundred dollar profit."

"It isn't a skylark--it's a sky_rocket_, and Mr. Fulton will pay you double over!" But it was into a dead transmitter he shouted it, for Mr.

Ring had not waited.

Jerry did not wait long either, but raced across fields and through woods to the river road. He found a shady spot, which he established as his headquarters, but he was too restless to wait there long. They seemed a mighty long two hours. The sun sank lower and lower; Jerry heard a bell ringing far off, calling the farm hands to supper--he was getting hungry himself. Shadows began to darken, the clouds flared up in a sudden crimson, first low down on the horizon, then high up in the sky. The sun dropped out of sight behind the trees.

Away down the road sounded a faint drumming noise that grew nearer and louder until around the bend whirred a dust-raising black monster that came to a halt a few feet away from the boy who had sprung out, shouting and waving his arms. "You waiting for gasoline?" a grouchy voice demanded. "Are you Mr. Ring?"

"I sure am!"

"Well, come on back here and help h'ist it out. We're in a hurry to get back to town--why it's only a kid!" as Jerry came up. "Who's going to help you handle it? It's in two five-gallon cans."

"I guess I can manage it all right. I've got some friends waiting down on the river bank."

"All right; it's your funeral. There you are, sealed, signed and delivered." The motor roared out, then settled to a steady hum; the man backed and turned and soon was swallowed up in the dust and the growing dark.

Jerry braced his shoulders for the stiff carry to the Plum, a five-gallon can in each hand. He was willing to stop now and then for a breathing spell, but at last he set the load down on the narrow fringe of sandy beach. Cupping his hands about his mouth, he sent a l.u.s.ty shout ringing across the water; he was too weary to swim it, and there did not seem to be much need for further concealment. There was an instant answer, showing that the boys had been awaiting his signal. The splash of oars told him that the boat was on the way, and he felt suddenly glad that he could now think of a few minutes' rest.

It proved to be Dave and Tod and Phil in the Scout boat. They made quick work of loading in the two cans, and then they all piled in, Dave and Tod at the oars. They were perhaps halfway across when Jerry asked, anxiously, it seemed:

"Can't you get any more speed out of her, fellows?"

"What's eating you? It's as dark now as it's going to get," answered Dave, at the same time letting his oars float idly up against the side of the boat.

"I'm worried, that's why," exclaimed Jerry, slipping over and pushing Dave out of his seat. "Do you hear anything?"

They all listened, Tod holding his oars out of the water. Sure enough, a purring, deeply m.u.f.fled sound came faintly across the water. It was unmistakably a motorboat.

"Some camper," suggested Dave.

"It sounds more like--trouble," declared Phil, a significant accent on the word. "The enemy, I bet, and trying to cut us off."

"Well, we've got a big start on them. They're a long way off" again Dave volunteered.

"You mean you're a long way off. They've got her tuned down--she isn't over two hundred yards away and coming like blue blazes. They mean mischief--they aren't showing a single light. What's our plan?"

"Keep cool," advised Jerry. "They'll probably try to b.u.mp us. We'll row along easy-like, with a big burst of speed at the last second. Before they can turn and come at us again, we can make sh.o.r.e. Steady now!"

The drone of the motor was almost upon them. The dusk lay heavy over the water; they could see nothing. Louder and louder sounded the explosions, but now they had slowed up. A dim shape showed through the gloom.

"All set!" came the low command from Jerry, just as the boat, m.u.f.fler cut out, the engine at top speed, and volleying revolutions and deafening explosions, seemed to leap through the water.

"Down hard!" cried Jerry, lunging with his oars. Tod grunted as he put all his strength into the pull. The Scout boat seemed to lift itself bodily out of the water as it plunged forward--only inches to spare as a slim hull slipped by the stern.

"Yah!" yelled Phil, jumping to his feet and shaking his fist wildly.

"You're beat!"

The Scout boat hit sh.o.r.e just then, and Phil, caught off his guard, took a header and landed astride one of the gasoline cans. "I wonder if that was a torpedo," he grunted as he picked himself up.

"No," chuckled Tod. "Just a reminder not to crow while your head is still on the block."

The boys wasted no time in getting the gasoline out of the boat and up through the bushes, sending a l.u.s.ty shout ahead of them to tell the waiting islanders that they were coming.

"Over on the far side of the clearing," directed Tod, who was carrying one side of a can with Jerry. "We hauled the _Skyrocket_ over there as the ground is more level and free from stumps."

They found the whole crew waiting about the airship, their eager faces lighted up by the flaring flames of one of the gasoline torches.

"Hooray for Jerry, the Gasoline Scout!" they shouted as the boys dropped their loads at the first convenient spot.

"Bully for you!" exclaimed Mr. Fulton, coming over and clapping Jerry on the shoulder. "Have any trouble?"

"You better guess we did," broke in Dave. "A motorboat tried its best to run us down."

Mr. Fulton looked grave as he listened to the tale of their adventure.

As Dave finished a spirited account of their narrow escape, the man turned to Tod with: