The Motor Chums at Large: Ersatz Heard From [1973]

[Part of chapter XIV (“Ned, Dick and Harry See Some Sights”) of The Motor Chums at Large, or, In Washington F.D. for Fun and Profit, originally written 12 April 1973]

T

he airship of the Motor Chums drifted over the city like an immense sky-borne pig. In the cabin Ned manned the controls, while Harry plotted out a course for the ship to take. At last the latter lad shoved aside his equipment and spoke.

“There’s something I don’t understand—”

“I don’t believe that,” chuckled Ned. Seeing the other pause, he urged, “Well, shit it out, as Tom would say.”

“I’ve been thinking—”

“A good way to waste the afternoon,” Ned interposed.

“—and I’ve come to a conclusion. I doubt that Ingram is actually concerned about the President’s safety.”

“You mean he isn’t worried about Bryan at all?” asked Ned, “I think he knows his duty—”

“No, he’s worried about Bryan all right,” replied Harry, “but I wonder if he worries more about what Bryan might do than what might be done to him.”

“What are you hinting at?” demanded Ned.

“I’m not certain,” Harry told him, “but I think—”

He broke off as one of the girls entered the cabin to inform them that supper was ready on the deck outside. Realizing that it would be improper to discuss such matters in the girls’ presence, Ned and Harry dropped the discussion for a later occasion.

On the deck of the Skyhog they found a considerable meal set forth, consisting of canned synthetic meat, canned synthetic vegetable matter, and roast pigeon (which Dick had shot earlier in the day for the girls to cook). Drink was provided in the form of a concoction Ersatz had brewed in Freemarket to the specifications of an ancient crypto-African recipe.

When the feast was well started, the revelers were joined by Dick and Abby, and then ingurgitation and merriment were the rule of the hour.

“Where is Tom Wilshire?” asked Jan, “I’ve always wanted to meet him.”

“Or better yet, Ersatz Simpson,” added Abby, “I just love his hilarious antics.”

“Well, you see, we’re on a secret mission for Father Sam,” explained Harry.

“And you can’t divulge their present location,” nodded Abby understandingly.

“That’s true enough,” replied Ned.

“I remember that from The Motor Chums with the Department of Imperialism,” explained Abby.

“Say,” asked Jan, “How did you escape from being crushed in that electric cement mixer in The Motor Chums and their Electric Cannon?”

“Yes, and what were you doing on that train to Montreal?” put in Debbie.

“It was very simple,” explained Ned.

“Let’s just say that we escaped with our usual ingenuity,” added Harry.

“And the full story’s going to be told in The Motor Chums and their Electric Oil Pump,” was Dick’s contribution.

“Tell us some of your adventures,” begged Jan.

“Oh, jiminy,” observed Ned, “They’re all available in the series.”

“Right,” cautioned Harry, “Don’t undercut the market.”

“This drink is like nothing,” remarked Abby, “I’ve ever tasted before.”

“Yes, it does have some unusual properties,” admitted Harry.

“Especially when it goes bad, like now,” grunted Dick.

“What’s in it?” Debbie wanted to know.

“It’s a secret recipe,” explained Ned. “We put it to chemical analysis, but learned nothing.”

“You get as much illumination from merely drinking the substance,” confirmed Harry.

So delightfully did the time pass that the meal was over long before the young folks noticed it. The roast pigeon was pronounced excellent by all hands, and Ersatz’ potion made something of a “hit” with the girls. They were still sipping from the cobwebbed bottles after the meal, as Harry pointed out sites of interest to anyone who was still listening.

“It was through here,” expounded Harry, pointing over the side of the ship, “that Ross’s armies swept, burning and looting. Everything of value, the Capitol building—then only half, complete was destroyed. Entirely although the present structure is, of the same design and; built with some of the original. Material.”

“Gee, I just can’t get over it,” breathed Jan, “being screwed by the Famous Motor Chums.”

“Everybody gets screwed by the Famous Motor Chums,” Ned whispered.

“Down there,” replied Harry, “is the sight of the Jefferson assassination, which caused rather a stir at the time.” He paused for another drink out of his glass. “If you lean over the railing you can see the gleam of the gold alloy of the memorial statute. The halo that surmounts it, by the way, is kept alight by the Edison Electric company.”

“You sure know a lot about the city,” said Jan admiringly.

“Hey,” suggested Dick, gazing over the side, “I bet I could hit that car, I bet,” and he brandished his bottle in so comical a manner that the others had to laugh.

“I wonder what that asshole Tom’s up to,” chuckled Ned.

“Let’s have some music on the radio,” Debbie reclaimed, rising feetsward. She played with the levers, but seemed unable to find anything satisfactory.

“Probably he’s hot-foot on the clew of another trail,” chickled Ned. “God, what an asshole.”

Sounds akin to music ended this discussion with a pop. “Jeepers,” exclaimed Ned, “that’s just some religious carp.”

“Sounds like the Jesus-choir,” murbled Harry.

Debbie started to maneuver the levers, when stayed by the chums. The sounds extruded by the device, though unmusical in the extreme, were of great interest for them.

“I’se been all ma life a po’ sinnah,” remarked the radio, “but Ah aint po’ no mo’, not since Ah jined up wid de Billy Sunday houh ob surbible.”

“That’s Ersatz’ voice,” amazed Ned.

“All them colored voices sound alike,” phlegmaticked Dick, “how can you tell?”

Chaos ended the speech, and then Sunday began one of his own. “Friends, what happened here in Derleth to-day is a sign among the faithful for the success of our New England pogrom. We have made 2,379 converts for a grand total of 2,498,632,739 converts to the Lordjesuschrist. Think of it, friends, think of it, over two billion men, women, and children safe in the arms of Jesus. It’s a heartwarming thought. But don’t forget—to carry on the good work we need your spiritual and financial support. Sent it to Billy Sunday Pogrom, St. Paul, Minnesota. Next week we will be speaking to you from the town of Fascist, so tune in friends. And may the Lord bless you—real good.”

“Well,” tripped Ned, “so Ersatz is in Derleth.”

The news clouted Harry less calmly. “What’s the time?” he incised.

“About six, I guess,” softed Ned, “so what?”

“So one of us must fly to Derleth to warn him,” imploded Harry.

“Huh,” fielded Ned, “Ersatz isn’t dumb. He’ll get home all right.”

“And be arrested, like as not,” grarfed Harry.

“Arrested?” strafed Debbie. “Why?”

Horged Harry “Got to get to the Fly-By-Night.”

“Right,” leaped Ned, cabinsward, wheelguided.

Staggered Harry after, thinking in vain. “Maps. Compass. Sextant.”

Upbuilt steam within the bowels of the ship, and farted forward the Skyhog under unsteady command of our heroes.

“There it is,” pointed Dick to the archaic barn in which the aeroplane slumbered undisturbed. The Motor Chums and their fair companions dismounted, and it was a simple matter to rouse the craft for flight. The Motor Chums were skilled in mechanical matters.

“Leaping Creepers,” nedded Said, “Can you pilot the ’plane, do you think?”

Harry grinned. “For the safety of the club and the glory of heaven I’m off.”

The ’plane weaved across the field, vaulted a fence, and was sight to lost.

Sobered, Ned glared skyward. “God, I hope he makes it.”

The Motor Chums at Large: Contest at the Airmeet [1973]

[Chapter XIII (“A Contest with Alphonse”) of The Motor Chums at Large, or, In Washington F.D. for Fun and Profit, originally written 11 April 1973]

G

reat excitement attended the election airmeet in Washington F.D. So also did aviators from every part of the American Empire. Airships of all sorts were to be seen—clumsy Prussian Flugmachinen, light Gallic Avions, huge dirigibles and small monoplanes, as well as a good many of novel and original designs.

People of many classes had come, some to take part, and some to merely observe, but all shared a common enthusiasm for the new invention.

In one corner of the grounds a crowd had gathered thickly, so as to watch a race, by no means the first such event of the day. Four aeroplanes of different design were entered, and many of those watching were eager to learn from their performance. Unfortunately a delay in starting was in evidence.

“I guess you’ll just have to forfeit the race,” grinned Clarence Ashton evilly.

“I will not,” retorted the other, “Just because my pilot took it upon himself to get sick. My multiplane will beat your mere monoplane any day of the week.”

“It looks like we aint ever gonna know, don’t it?” observed Ashton sneeringly.

Alphonse Notochord whispered something to the bully. “Gotta get my plane ready,” muttered Ashton, and the two evildoers crept around behind the Yellow Streak.

On another part of the grounds could be found a brisk young fellow addressing a crowd of reporters.

“Then you didn’t come to compete in the races?” challenged a reporter.

“No indeed,” laughed the lad, “I came to-day as a spectator.”

“Is it true that you and the rest of the Motor Chums are working on an aeroplane with hovering capacities, Mr. Wilshire?”

“I’m honored that the world thinks so highly of me,” replied Tom, for indeed it was he, “but it seems that if I believe the papers, the Motor Chums are working on every invention under the sun.”

The shot told. As another reporter pushed forward with a new question, unnoticed by Tom, a slinking figure separated itself from the crowd and left hastily.

Above the grounds drifted the Skyhog, still aloft from the night before. Its deck showed signs of recent strenuous use, for empty bottles were in evidence, littered clothes, and other paraphernalia.

“Geee-sus,” groaned short Ned Eliot, “Where in hell are we, as Dante asked Virgil?”

“At the airmeet,” came the reply from Abby, or perhaps Jan. “Come look at the aeroplanes!”

Ned staggered experimentally to his feet. “I’m sick,” he observed, “sick, sick, sick as a dog.”

Harry was amusing himself by pointing out the different types of ’planes to the girls, while Dick seemed to be letting air out of the balloon. Ned joined the others at the railing, and threw up over the side.

“We’re gonna go down,” asserted Dick, and no-one countered his suggestion.

Somewhere below Alphonse Notochord was standing by as Clarence Ashton, grunting and sweating, checked out the engine of the plane.

“Do you think the ’plane will be ready to go by starting time?” Notochord inquired.

“It damn well better be,” exclaimed Ashton, “I aint losin’ no bet to a thievin’ Michiganian!”

“Well, as long as he can’t get into the air it seems fairly safe,” observed Notochord.

A familiar figure slunk forward. He attracted their attention and whined, “Tom Wilshire’s here at the fair.”

“Goddamn it!” exclaimed Ashton, “He don’t have no business bein’ here. He ought to be in jail back in Freemarket.”

“We were deceived,” observed Notochord. “They must have let him out just as soon as we left.”

“They shouldn’t’ve,” snarled Clarence, “Not on a treason charge.”

“They got to have more cops in their pocket than I thought,” grimaced the sneak, “My files say they can’t get out of anything more’n a misdemeanor.”

“Well, they did,” growled Clarence Ashton. “What’ve your files got to say about that?”

“I suppose that Chinese fellow’s no good,” observed Notochord.

“Probably lost track of them in Freemarket,” complained Ben.

“Well, that’s fuckin’ well finished,” exclaimed Ashton, straightening from his task. “This thing should fly like a hornet.”

Nearby, also preparing for the race, was the Michigander Ashton had alluded to. His preparations seemed mostly to be tearing out his hair and hurling it to the ground with some force.

“Say, what’s your problem?” exclaimed a young lad who had casually strolled up.

“My pilot’s ill, so I won’t have an opportunity to test my ship,” replied the other. “Can you help?”

“I believe so,” replied Tom goodnaturedly. “There’s little I don’t know about running airships.”

“I’m astonished,” exclaimed the Michigander. “You won’t take offense if I ask to see some credentials?”

“Of course not,” grinned Tom, “I wouldn’t take just anybody’s word for it either.” He slipped something from his billfold.

The other’s jaw dropped. “You’re not Tom Wilshire of the Famous Motor Chums, are you?” he gasped.

“That’s what my baptismal certificate says,” returned Tom.

“Well, then I apologize for doubting your ability,” he replied. “Imagine, doubting the ability of Tom Wilshire. I’m Sandy Lanthorn,” he exclaimed, extending his hand.

“I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” replied Tom. “Now, let’s take a look at your ship.”

Tom quickly ascertained that the controls were not so unfamiliar as to cause him any difficulty in handling the craft, and then began to examine the engine.

“Oh, that’s all right,” Lanthorn assured him, “I’ve checked all that myself.”

Tom looked it over for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “It seems all right to me,” he said. “Still, it’s always a good idea to check these things for oneself.”

“That’s true,” agreed Lanthorn. “I just can’t get over it. Me, talking to the leader of the Motor Chums.”

“One gets used to it in time,” Tom assured him.

“I’ve read all the Motor Chums books, you know,” said Lanthorn, “Wonderful stuff. How you do all that I don’t know.”

“Well, I suppose anyone could, if they put their mind to it,” replied Tom.

“Say, is Mr. Simpson around?” asked Lanthorn. “I’ve always wanted to meet him.”

“Mr. Simpson?” questioned Tom. “Oh, you mean Ersatz. No, he’s on a secret mission at this moment. No telling when he’ll be back, if ever.”

“That’s too bad,” observed Lanthorn, “I think he’s the all-round best of the Motor Chums.”

“Your airship works on a novel principle, doesn’t it?” Tom asked. “The arrangement of the wings—seven of them in a circle—is quite unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.”

“Why, yes, I designed it myself,” answered Lanthorn. “The air-flow in the fuselage is much improved that way.”

“Very ingenious,” Tom complimented him. “Is it patented?”

“Not yet,” was the reply, “I wish to determine whether it is worth patenting, first.”

“That’s sound,” approved Tom, taking a few notes, “When does the race start?”

“In about fifteen minutes,” Lanthorn told him.

Soon thereafter the Skyhog landed. Its occupants mingled with the crowd in some excitement.

“Look!” pointed Debbie, “there’s an aeroplane race just starting!”

This proved to be the case, and Dick soon cleared a path through the crowd for the others to follow. They reached the front of the crowd and thus had a fine view.

Four ’planes were involved. One was a bran-new monoplane, the most expensive model Assidual manufactured. The second was a ’plane of unique design, whose wings radiated from a central pivot; the third was a low-wing monoplane of peculiar construction, and the fourth was a biplane familiar to our heroes.

“The Yellow Streak!” exclaimed Ned. “That means Ashton’s in this race.”

“Clarence Ashton the bully?” asked Abby, “the one who’s played you so many mean tricks?”

“Yeah,” assented Dick.

They waited impatiently for the race to begin. Of course they all realized the difficulties involved in the preparations, for if the ’plane is to fly at all the altitude gage must be collaborated with the fuel tank, and the braces suspended from the cockpit, and many other adjustments made.

But a delay of another type was apparent.

“It aint fair to bring in somebody not listed on the official race-sheet,” protested a contestant.

“I’ll bring in anyone I like,” objected another.

A third figure broke in. “You’re a fine one to talk about fairness, Clarence Ashton,” he exclaimed. “Was it fair when you dynamited our newly-constructed electric shovel right before Edison Electric came by to look at it?”

Ned whispered to the others, “Why, that’s Tom Wilshire.”

Clarence Ashton made a gesture of disgust. “Aw, fuck,” he said, “Are you still harpin’ on that? That was a couple of years ago, and you never proved anything anyway.”

“I didn’t have to have proof,” exclaimed Tom, “You’re the only fellow in Freemarket mean enough to pull a stunt like that.”

“That aint so,” protested Ashton, “I’ll bet there’s dozens. Percy Folger’s done lower things’n me.”

“What about you, Tom Wilshire?” suggested Hangdog.

“What about me?” asked Tom calmly.

“You do some pretty good work in the sneaking line yourself,” Ben said deliberately.

“Well, thanks,” said Tom ironically, “Do you mean that I’m a sneak?”

“Damn right you are,” burst out Clarence.

“You got a lot of nerve, calling me a sneak,” observed Tom, “The best day’s work you ever did was losing the dirigible race to me.”

“I won that race,” proclaimed Ashton, “You just nipped in there and grabbed the prize before me!”

“Like blazes you won,” shouted Tom, “I beat you then and I’ll beat you now!”

“I can beat you at airship racin’ any day of the week,” Ashton retorted, “you lowdown sneak.”

“I’ll show you who the sneak is,” blazed Tom, leaping into the pilot’s seat. “Come on, Lanthorn.”

The ’plane motor screeched and wailed as Tom started it. In the other plane Ashton caused the motor to sputter into life, then leaped in beside his crony, Notochord.

All four pilots signaled their readiness. The flagman waved his yellow flags and then the starting cannon boomed in the distance. The aeroplanes started down the runway, and one by one took to the air.

One came to immediate grief. The pilot, perhaps through inexperience, had forgotten to put oil in the fuse-box. The monoplane flipped over and was immediately covered with flame.

The Yellow Streak took to the air without a hitch and ascended rapidly. Ashton wasted no time in speeding the ’plane on its way, but before he was fairly started the Assidual had already vanished.

Wilshire chose a more spectacular mode of ascent. He swooped low over the crowd, spinning the ’plane quickly, and then plowed through a pile of sawdust waiting to be spread. He then knocked the flags from the flagman’s hands, ascended in a quick series of loops and sought the horizon.

“I’ve never seen anyone do things like that with an aeroplane before!” exclaimed Jan.

“Well, that’s Tom Wilshire’s specialty,” observed Ned.

“What is?” asked the girl.

“Doing things with aeroplanes that haven’t been done before,” replied Ned. “I just hope he can still win the race.”

The race course was so set out that the contestants must fly to a tower a mile or so off, circle it, and return to the field. A watcher was situated at the tower to ensure fair play.

There was therefore little for the crowd to see until the return of the aeroplanes. Some in the crowd waited eagerly for the wreck to cool enough for them to come close, so as to get fragments for souvenirs or spare parts.

“It certainly is a shame,” declared Debbie, “that a good fellow like Tom has to compete against low-down scoundrels.”

“They shouldn’t allow people like that Ashton to race,” agreed Abby, or Jan.

“It’d sure be easier to win if they weren’t in it,” observed Ned.

“If only moral rectitude could be turned to our advantage,” murmured Harry.

“Or if we could somehow turn their rascality to account,” suggested Ned.

“Say, now that is a veritable stroke of genius,” commented Harry, a smile encroaching upon his features, “I must make a phone call.” He vanished even as he spoke.

“A phone call to whom?” frowned Jan.

Ned shrugged. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Harry’s call apparently did not take long, for he was back at once.

“All right,” insisted Ned, “Knock off the mystery. Who’d you call?”

“I merely placed a call to our friend Ingram,” observed Harry, “and told him that two of the plotters were trying to escape in an aeroplane. Secret Police anti-aircraft guns are being set up to bring them down.”

“Wow! What a stunt!” exclaimed Ned, “That’s clever enough to be a Wilshire plot.”

Anticipation showed on every face when the sound of a returning aeroplane could be heard in the distance. Which of the contestants would it be? A great cheer came from the crowd when it was discovered to be the ’plane which Tom Wilshire piloted. There was no other ’plane in sight.

It circled the field twice and then settled on the earth like a great fly. Ashen-faced, Sandy Lanthorn stumbled out, and stared about him in a dazed manner. The confident young aviator put in an appearance from the other side of the ship, grinning cheerfully. With a flourish, he accepted the prize-money and made a short speech. Lanthorn babbled incoherently and gesticulated violently.

With a bow, Tom finished his speech and strode off the field. The crowd waited for a period of time and then began to drift away also. The other aeroplanes failed to show. Ned and Harry knew the Secret Police had Clarence and Alphonse. But the disappearance of the Assidual was a mystery to them. (And I may as well say here that the mystery never was cleared up, and the fate of the unlucky aviator remains unknown to this day.)

The Motor Chums in Alaska: An Underhanded Scheme

[passage from The Motor Chums in Alaska, or, The Search for Incan Gold, written 16–17 March 1979]

“T

his won’t do,” muttered Tom. He spared no glance to the others as he went into a conference over strategy with Ersatz.

Ned was accosted by a teammate. “What do you think of Skyways Transport?” he was asked.

“Forget it,” was Ned’s response. “Motor Chums Industries has it sewed up tight.”

“Maybe so, maybe not,” said the other. “My father says it looks an up and coming venture, and he knows where he can get a couple hundred shares.”

Ned looked impressed, then remarked, “Probably nothing to it. If there was a couple hundred shares around, Tom would already’ve grabbed ’em.”

The other laughed. “I bet my dad knows a few things Tom doesn’t,” he said. With that the bell sounded for the second round.

During this round the Badgers held their own. Bingo Wright got to fourth on a puffed foul, while Ned blatted a triple whinger into the backstop. Harry exhibited some fancy footwork in stealing two bases and gained four points for the team. Although penalized for a moving violation, the Dragons were also brilliant; Fred Hoffman in particular knocked off two of the Badgers with a sharply-kicked field goal. But the unquestioned “star” of the round was Tom, who not only managed two run-ins, but virtually kept the opposition from scoring during his chores in the pitcher’s booth.

“That glory-grabber,” sneered Clarence Ashton, “Even when he’s going to throw the game, he has to look good.”

“That young ruffian ought to be jailed for the rest of his life!” burst out a stranger.

Clarence turned to the newcomer. “You talkin’ about our school hero?” he asked.

“School hero? Reform school hero, maybe—I’m talking about Tom Wilshire!”

“Say,” grinned Clarence, “You’re not a bad fellow for a Jeffersonian—but I think they ought to hang him from the school flagpole.”

“What has the miscreant perpetrated against you?” asked the other curiously.

Clarence glanced around shiftily. “You won’t tell anyone?” he asked.

“Of course not,” said the young man.

“By holding my debts over my head,” hissed Clarence, “he forced me to sign an apology to a colored lad.”

The stranger let out a whistle. “Well, after that what he did to me doesn’t look so bad—he merely stole my car and kidnapped a young lady-friend of mine.”

“You want to get back at him?” demanded Clarence. “I got a scheme. After the game we can talk with a friend of mine about it.”

The situation did not look good for the Badgers. At the beginning of the third round they still lagged behind by a good many points, and Tom had been replaced in the pitcher’s booth by Larry, who though well-thought-of, possessed none of Tom’s “brilliance” in the rôle. But the Dragons too had their setbacks. Fred Hoffman, the star player, was removed from the game when his stick exploded, while another had to be benched for his conduct in a pile-up on the free-throw line. As a result the team was badly crippled and barely scored, while without Fred’s pitching the Badgers were able to rack up several points.

“Can Tom save the situation?” was Ned’s anxious question.

“We seem to have the situation well in hand,” Harry replied. “We’ve had buy orders from as far away as Denver.”

“Not Skyways Transport,” snapped Ned. “The game.”

“There’s no necessity for worry on that score,” Harry informed him. “Tom and Ersatz are putting together some invention to save us at the last moment, as usual.”

“It am done, Marse Harry, deed it am,” shouted Ersatz, running up to the chums. “We’s inbented a Dragon-blaster dis time.”

“We sure have,” agreed Tom, “Wait’ll you see it in action. We’ll show the Dragons what the Badgers are made of.”

And as Tom predicted, in the last round the Badgers really showed their stuff. One by one the Dragons fell away, unable to cope with Tom’s pitching pyrotechnics. Although it took Ersatz five minutes to put out the stadium, all agreed that Tom’s flaming arc-ball was worth the cost, and his shooting-star spectacular so dazzled the Dragons that they were worth little for the remainder of the game.

Although the Badgers were delighted with the outcome—several hundred percent return on investment—others were not.

“Ruined!” shrieked Clarence angrily. “The bastards ruined us!”

“What do you mean?” whined Ben Hangdog nervously. “Let’s talk in my office.”

“Say, do you have your own office now,” Clarence Ashton asked enviously. “I’ve been School Bully now for six months and haven’t got mine. Anyway, since when is the school toady entitled to an office?”

“I’ve been promoted,” snickered Ben, “Cancher read? I’m th’ school sneak, now.” And the brass plaque on the door read “Ben Hangdog, School Sneak.” “Who’s th’ dude wicher?”

“I’m Herbert Waverly the First,” the lad introduced himself, “Ashton here says you two have a scheme on.”

“We did have,” blustered Ashton, “Till we were wiped out by losin’ the bets in the game.”

“We were gonna blow up Tom’s workshop,” said Ben Hangdog, “An’ then beat him to th’ Gold City while he’s still buildin’ his airship.”

“The Gold City!” exclaimed Herbert. “How do you know about that?”

“I heard Tom talkin’ about it with his gang,” said Clarence.

“Th’ main thing is, we need an airship,” said Ben, “An’ we need ter steal Tom’s map.”

Herbert produced the parchment with a triumphant flourish. “Here’s the map!” he exclaimed, “I had it off a certain young lady the ruffians kidnapped. And I’ll pay for the airship. That’s a low underhanded plan you’ve got.”

Ben grinned from ear to ear. “Thanks,” he whined humbly.

“I know who we can get to build and run it,” blustered Clarence. “You know Orville Risley?”

“The famed aviator?”

“And long-time foe of the Motor Chums,” snickered Ben.

“He’d be glad to do those bastards a bad turn,” boasted Clarence moodily. He turned to Ben. “You got anything on them now?”

“Lemme look at my files.” The little sneak walked over to a booth literally stuffed with file drawers and removed one, labeled “Motor Chums—April 10-17, 1910.” “Here we are … let’s see … they’re using a front to build an airship—something called Skyways Transport.”

Waverly’s jaw dropped. Ashton groaned. “I own a couple hundred shares—” began the rich man’s son, while the bully said, “I been doing promotions for them.”

“Those tricky bastards,” whimpered Ben Hangdog.

The Motor Chums in Alaska: A Field Trip [1979]

[A passage from The Motor Chums in Alaska, or, The Search for Incan Gold, written 12–14 March 1979]

“Y

ou want me to sponsor a field trip to Alaska!” exclaimed Mr. Kemp incredulously.

Tom nodded as Harry spread out maps and contracts in a businesslike manner. Ned glanced nervously at the clock. “Tom,” he observed, “the game’s just about to start.”

Tom waved him off. “We feel,” he said firmly, “it would be an educational experience in several dimensions, allowing the students of Horatio Alger High to optimize their latent capabilities in a novel environment. It will enhance decision-making skills, ability to verbalize needs in stress-situations, and provide conflict-resolution for certain key students here.”

“Our plan,” added Harry, “is to follow a westward route over the Great Lakes, which will allow us to look over such sites of interest as Detroit and Kalamazoo. Then reaching the b order of the Federated Northern States, we will pass into Dakotah territory and perhaps examine a tribe of Wild Indians.”

With that an interruption was felt as an apparition with a water bucket broke in. “Marse Tom! Ise done closed de bettin’ windows.”

“Good,” said Tom briefly.

“The game!” exclaimed Ned. “Tom, we have to get out there.”

“Our route will touch on several scenic spots,” Harry continued, “passing over Yellowstone Park and Snake Eyes or Dry Gulch Canyon in Wauregan.”

“A pause for refueling in Seattle—a brief glimpse of the frontier backwoodsmen and raw lumberjackery—and then it’s off for the Sootka Valley in the heart of unexplored Alaska,” finished Tom with a flourish.

“I’m not going,” said Mr. Kemp with finality. “It is a trip entirely without value, and dangerous besides. I cannot justify spending class time on such a project.”

“But it’s the chance of a lifetime!” protested Ned.

“A chance to end our lives miserably in the Alaskan ice floes,” said Mr. Kemp. “Do you lads have any idea what travel by dogsled is like?”

“We’ll be going by airship,” said Harry.

“That’s worse than ever,” said Mr. Kemp, throwing up his hands, “If we don’t crash into a mountain or blow up, we’ll have an engine failure in the wilderness.”

“All us Motor Chums are skilled aviators,” said Tom, “There is no danger of anything of that sort happening.” He pulled a magazine from his pocket. “This is yours, isn’t it, sir?”

“The Audifax Society Bulletin,” read Mr. Kemp. “I haven’t seen a copy of that for years.”

“I believe you were fired from Harvard for an article in this issue,” said Harry. “‘Corporate Rape of our Natural Surroundings.’”

“I’ve marked a couple of passages here,” said Tom. He read, “‘Little good can come from emissions of toxic gasses into the air from smokestacks across the nation.’”

“Here’s another,” said Ned, “‘Wanton interference with the natural order, especially on foreign shores where these matters are little understood, can only create catastrophes and perhaps sow for the FS a harvest of hate.’ As if we weren’t bringing the blessing of civilization to places like Africa and Europe!”

“And, ‘If F.S. Steel has its way there will be no wood in 1950,’” read Harry.

“I won’t be blackmailed,” said Mr. Kemp. “I’m sure you could stir things up royally, but I will not give in. I will not sponsor a field-trip to Alaska.”

“Sir, you leave us no choice,” said Harry, “We had intended to keep it secret, but now we must reveal the real purpose of our trip. We have good reason to believe that a hitherto unknown civilized race may inhabit the fastnesses of the Sootka Valley.” Briefly he described the evidence, suppressing only all mention of the Gold City.

“Can’t you fit this trip into your scientific expeditions, sir?” Tom demanded politely. “Last year you looked in on the Melanesian Ngrillas. The year before you studied the Philippine Tasmanians. Surely this year you could chart the Eskimos or something.”

Mr. Kemp sighed. “All my life,” he said, “I’ve been searching for utopia. I suppose I may as well search in Alaska as anywhere else.”

“Then you’ll sponsor the trip?”

“I will,” said Mr. Kemp. “But no good will come of it,” he added ominously.

The lads were too excited to take notice of this, however. With a happy “hooray!” Ersatz threw his water bucket high into the air, distributing the contents about the room. Ned turned a cartwheel while Tom strode briskly through the door. Harry paused just long enough to gather his papers, and then joined the other lads in following their collective leader.

As they reached the locker room Bingo Wright and Larry Lawton shoved the helmets on their heads and gave them their gloves. “Come on!” Larry said, “They’re waiting for you.”

The team took the field in high spirits, for by Tom’s capable management, they expected to turn a good profit. Perhaps the spirits of Tom and his friends were higher than most, for Motor Chums Industries owned a good percentage of Badger’s, Inc., but all stood to gain. A deafening cheer rang out when Tom took the pitcher’s box, for he was known and liked for miles around, and the Badgers therefore offered a small discount in ticket price to those who agreed to provide this moral support.

The first round went against our heroes. Although Tom’s work was as good as ever, Bingo dropped a hop fly on the twenty-fifth and even Dick missed an easy liner to the goal. The sole run was scored by Dick, and neither Tom nor Harry even came to bat. The score stood 14-3½.

The Motor Chums in Alaska: An Uninvited Eavesdropper [1979]

[Passage from The Motor Chums in Alaska, written 22 February 1979. Having borrowed a touring-car from the local rich kid, the lads discuss their plans to seek out the Gold City of the Incas. But it turns out that they are not alone; an unknown girl has overheard their scheme.]

“What’s that sound?” demanded short Ned Eliot.

“The fuse-valve,” explained Tom. “It’s about to explode!” With all the skill and knowledge at his disposal he fought for control of the Hartrod, attempting to avert disaster.

“I suggest you stop the car,” came from Harry.

“Yeah,” agreed Dick Trefoil.

“You’ll have to jump,” replied Tom. “I don’t dare put on the brakes—it will heat up the carbonizer to the boiling point!”

Tom had no sooner spoken these words than the others had removed their persons from the car and distributed themselves in various attitudes along the dusty road, Dick, with characteristic gallantry dragging the strange girl along with him. Giving a powerful twist to the wheel, Tom leaped nimbly from the seat just as the car overturned into the ditch, at once catching fire.

“Shit,” said Dick, as the lads rose to their feet, and the others let this comment stand for their own.

“Herbert won’t thank you for what you did to his car, I’m sure,” the unknown young lady said. “You’re in trouble now,”

“Waverly ought to be thankful I don’t turn him in,” Tom retorted, “Assuming I don’t. I should—that car wasn’t safe to be run on the road. It could have blown up at any time!”

The girl laughed scornfully. “Nonsense. While you’re all in jail for wrecking Herbert’s car, we’ll be taking a trip to the gold city, see if we don’t.”

“Not without the map,” said Ned.

“Who needs a map?” said the girl, “I know it’s in the Sootka Valley—with an airship finding it will be a cinch—how can a city stay hidden?”

“Well, I like that!” burst out Ned.

“You’d think a fellow could plot with his friends without having eavesdroppers,” said Tom coldly. “If you weren’t a girl I could think of a word to describe such cowardly behavior.”

“What were you doing hiding in the rumble-seat anyway?” demanded Ned.

“When your colored lad attacked poor Herbert I thought it safer to hide,” she said. “There is no telling what he might have done in his berserk rage.”

“Herbert?” asked Tom incredulously.

“She means Ersatz,” Harry explained. “This is Clara Langword, who has often been observed in company with Waverly.”

“I don’t believe I know who you are?” Clara retorted angrily.

The chums laughed at this. “You don’t know who the famous Motor Chums are?” asked Ned. “That takes the cake, frosting and all, as the baker said about the delivery van.”

“You—the famous Motor Chums?” said Clara. “I don’t believe it. I’ve read the books, you know.”

“It’s true, though,” said Tom.

“The question is,” said Harry, “what are we going to do with her now? We can’t let her go, to sell out our secret to the highest bidder. I suggest we leave her in the clubhouse prison for two or three weeks. Once we’re on our way we can let her loose.”

“What, and reveal our clubhouse location to some one who isn’t one of us?” asked Tom. “No thanks.”

“Let’s beat her up,” suggested the practical Dick.

“I think Harry’s right,” said Ned. “Herbert’s rich and we need money for our trip. Why don’t we hold her for ransom at the same time? Of course we’ll pay Herbert back after we find the gold city,” he added hastily.

“My thought is,” said Tom, “that we take her money and jewelry and abandon her somewhere a ways off—say Mexico—so it will take her awhile to get back.”

“If we do that, why not simply abandon her in Riverside at night,” said Harry. “It will have much the same effect, be less trouble for us, and likely be more permanent. You know the criminal element have no love for Waverly in any case.”

The Motor Chums in Alaska: Rejected Passage

[Passage cut from The Motor Chums in Alaska on 21 January 1992]

T

he lads all took a moment to admire the airship they had just completed with much time and effort. “Well, what do you think of it, Ersatz?" asked Tom. Ersatz Simpson was a colored lad whose eccentricities of speech provided much amusement for the comrades.

“Ah think we shouldn’t hab done used dat numbah thuteen wiah,” said Ersatz darkly.

“Nonsense.” Tom laughed cheerfully at the colored lad’s supersti­tion. He might not have laughed so long, however, had he known how true these words would prove.

“Looky here, Marse Tom,” said Ersatz firmly. “Dat wiah jest ain’t big enough fo’ de ’mount ob current you wants ter put through it. And dat’s de trufe.”

“I’m sure the wire is just fine,” said Tom confidently. “And if we’d waited till after Orville Risley had launched his Octoplane, why, we’d never sell the tickets we sold for today.” Orville Risley, as readers of the earlier volumes in our series know, was a famed aviator and long-time foe of the Motor Chums.

“But are you really sure there's no danger?”

“What if the ship catches fire?”

These anxious questions came from Laura and Penny Fenderby, two sisters for whom Ned and Dick had a certain liking.

“There is nothing to worry about,” Tom assured the girls. “We’re just going to take the buggy out for a little spin and come right back. Nothing can go wrong.”

“That’s what you said when you wanted to fly that blimp to Mars,” said Laura.

“We almost made it,” objected Ned hotly. “We would have too, if we hadn’t run out of air.”

“Suppose the electricity went out?” asked Penny.

“The wiring is fine,” said Tom. “Number thirteen wire is good enough for what I want of it. There’s no danger of anything happening with the electrical system.”

“Unless Dick forgets to keep pedaling,” said the irrepress­ible Ned.

Pickled Wilderness

[A passage from The Motor Chums in Alaska, or, The Search for Incan Gold, written 18 January 1979]

T

he intrepid party now found itself in a wild and desolate region of mountainous aspect. Huge volcanoes flared intermittently in the distance, seemingly in answer to the spouts of water beneath the chums—the famous geysers of the Yellowstone country. So savage was the country that one could easily imagine that hordes of untamed Indians still roamed the land as in ages past. Not a sign of civilization was visible. Only the picnic benches, lights, marked trails and the gigantic Ferris wheel gave mute evidence that the hand of man had ever touched the region.

“This is Yellowstone National Park,” Harry observed unnecessarily, as usual acting as a guide for the expedition. “Founded in 1872 it is the oldest of all National Parks, and contains nearly 3000 acres of scenic beauty, wildlife, and geysers. Attempts to exterminate all dangerous animals from the park have yet to prove successful, but with the rapid removal of many of their natural defenses, such as the trees, and the building of many new roads, it will not be long before the result is assured. Soon the park will be made so secure that even children and the elderly will be able to enjoy the thrill of being in a real wilderness in perfect safety.”

Phil laughed. “A playground for the elite,” he said. “How many of the factory workers in Trenton or Montreal are ever going to visit this park?”

“If they worked their way to the top they would,” Ned pointed out.

“It does seem like a waste of good farmland,” said Laura, “Although of course it is rather pretty.”

They were interrupted by the sound of hissing air from above them and a howl of anguish from the control cabin. At once Harry moved to the front of the ship, arriving in time to see the control rods detach themselves from the free-spinning flywheels and fly through the canvas gasbag above. With that the ship began to settle rapidly.

Not one whit alarmed, Tom shut off the fuel-valves “to prevent an explosion” and short-circuited the alarm system “so as not to frighten the passengers.”

“What happened?” Harry inquired.

“How in the blue blazes am I supposed to know that?” demanded Tom. “I’m not a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well, the emergency parachute system appears to have activated itself correctly on this occasion,” Harry said. “We should land safely.”

“If we aren’t smashed on the rocks and don’t land in the river,” put in Mr. Kemp, “or get blown up by a geyser.”

“Don’t let the passengers hear you talk,” Harry cautioned him, “They’re nervous enough as it is.”

Tom strode out and gave a brief explanation to the others. “We’ve decided to camp out to-night at the park, so as to make a few minor adjustments to the engine. We will be landing in a moment.”

This prophecy proved correct, as the ship abruptly came to a halt and then tilted to an angle, throwing the passengers against the walls.

“We landed in the river,” shouted Mr. Kemp. “I predicted this would happen!”

“Well, let’s go out and take a look at the park before sunset,” suggested Tom, “while I check the Rainbow II for damage.” This was done, and soon the young people were enjoying themselves in Father Sam’s own playground.

Tom and Harry, with the assistance of Ersatz, examined the ship carefully. Harry looked over the engine while Tom supervised Ersatz in inspecting the gasbag. Suddenly Ersatz raised a shout. “Dis am bery strange,” he exclaimed. “De bag am full ob little holes! Dere mus’ be t’ousands ob dem in dis ol’ canvas!”

“Can you see anything else?” Tom called.

“Birdshit!” the colored lad replied.

“And, by the way, Tom,” Harry interrupted, “the whole engine mechanism seems to be fouled.”

“With what?” Tom demanded.

“With feathers, and what appears to be some kind of excrement,” Harry told him. “I can’t be certain, of course, but I would say that it originated with birds.”

“Marse Tom,” said Ersatz, landing with a thump beside his chums, “Ah t’ink de birds am got it in fo’ us.”

“It’s one of the tests the legend spoke of,” said Mr. Kemp. “I knew better than to come along with you lads, but I did, and now we must all be punished. ‘To enter the gold city one must be pure of heart—one must be tested and found worthy, by ice, by capture, by wild beast.’ By wild beast.” He paused. “There are still beasts wild enough in Yellowstone Park, God knows.”

As if in conformation to these words a growl emanated from the ship. “Help, help, alretty!” came a cry. “A lion loose on de ship iss!”

“Lions are not indigenous to North America,” Harry nitpicked.

“Maybe he means a puma,” Tom suggested. “Where are the guns?”

“In the control cabin stores,” Harry replied. Further conversation was prevented by the sudden apparition of Franz Joseph fairly flying over the railing and landing in a heap about twenty feet away from the chums.

“A lion hass the control room overtaken! He iss pigger dan pig—de granfadder of all lions alretty!” he babbled breathlessly.

“Maybe we can entice him out with some meat,” suggested Tom. “It doesn’t seem sportsmanlike but without our guns we don’t really have that much of a choice.” 

“We have no meat, either,” said Harry. “We may be reduced to hoping he will leave the ship of his own accord.”

The Motor Chums at Large: To the Secret Police

[A further passage from The Motor Chums at Large, originally written in January 1973.]

T

om and his companions paused briefly outside Ingram’s office in the great Secret Police Complex, for it was apparent that the agent was in conference. “Look here, Senator,” he was saying, “I don’t think it would be wise for you to continue in your attempt to have our budget cut. I have here a duplicate of the SP file on your activities —” Ingram caught sight of the Motor Chums. “Excuse me, Senator,” he said, “I see I have an important appointment.

The Senator brushed angrily past our heroes. “You’ll pay for this,” he hissed. Tom looked at him coldly and led the way into the office.

“Good to see you, lads, good to see you,” boomed Ingram heartily.

“I hope we interrupted nothing important,” said Harry politely.

“No, that’s just Morton of the damn F.S. Steel faction worried about the great expense of our operations—but what he really wants is the SP out and Guardians Unlimited’s WPA in. Well, we can handle him. If we let the public know of his Cuban interests there’d be a howl you could hear from Balto-Slavia. No, this is just a feeler—it’s Roosevelt that’s the real danger—But I’m talking shop. Lads it’s good to see you. That was a fine bit of work you did, breaking up that Canadian Resistance Unit.”

“What Canador Resistor Eunuch?” asked Dick.

“Surely that was the Rowdy Boys,” observed Harry, “in The Rowdy Boys with the Border Bandits if memory serves. It was suppressed by order of—”

“Yeah, that was the Rowdy Boys,” agreed the secret policeman, “Was it the Arizona Indian uprising? Or the Pittsburg coal-mine strike?”

“We assisted you in finding that Gallic aviator who crashed in the swamps of Nueva Hispania,” Harry reminded him. “You got the Croix de Gaulle for it.”

“Had to give it back,” Ingram recalled. “Can’t accept a decoration from a foreign power. Say, where’s that colored lad of yours?”

“He’s around somewhere,” evaded Tom.

“Too bad he isn’t here,” regretted Ingram. “After all, it was really due to him that we found Monsieur LeFrog at all. Well, what brings you lads here this time?”

“Sir,” replied Tom, “We’ve discovered a plot of some kind against the President!”

“Well, we’re always interested in plots,” proclaimed Ingram warmly, “That’s what we’re here for. I don’t suppose you know which plot this one is?”

“Sir?” inquired Harry.

“Is it the Mexican assassination plot? Or the WPA undermining plot? Or the DOI vilification plot?”

“We believe several prominent Industrialists are involved,” stated Harry, “but the only one we’re certain of is Senator Baxter.”

“And Orville Risley,” put in Ned.

“The famed aviator?” frowned Ingram.

“Exactly,” agreed Harry, “and loath as we are to believe it, it seems several of our schoolfellows are involved. Their names are Clarence Ashton, Ben Hangdog, and Alphonse Notochord.”

“You’d better tell me the whole story,” observed Ingram grimly.

This Tom did, telling of their observations and discoveries in a manner that would have made even a professional detective wince. When he came to the point where the machinations of the conspirators had him arrested, Ingram started.

“You say the evidence fell into the hands of the Freemarket Police Company?” he demanded sharply, “Is that an F.S. Steel affiliate?”

“It’s a local company,” replied Harry, “But I believe it has Protection, Inc. connections.”

“That’s good,” Ingram said, “We’ll get Standard Oilco’s co-operation in this. If we can’t wrest those papers loose—” He turned to the telephone. Through the device he communicated the information given him by the chums to another office in the complex, then turned back to the Motor Chums. “We’ll have what’s in our files on Baxter, Risley and the rest in about half an hour. In the meantime, how’d you like a tour of the place?”

To this the chums assented, and soon they were thoroughly enjoying themselves in seeing the inner workings off the police force which is responsible for protecting the internal security of the Federated States.

“This is an interrogation room,” explained Ingram, “Here enemy agents, saboteurs, and other scum are questioned as to their illegal activities.”

Tom examined the chrome-plated interrogation0booths with professional interest. “Seems to me there could be some improvements made. Look,” he pointed, “the electroshock controls—they’re too far away from those for the vice-grip.”

“And there are no footpedals for the centrifuge,” spoke Ned, not to be outdone.

“For that matter,” murmured Harry, “those Durham cuffs are really obsolete. They’re too easy to break out of.”

“Well,” laughed Ingram, “You lads are one too many for me. You really ought to try your hand at the invention of an interrogation device of your own. (And it may be said here that Tom did just that in a future book of this series, to be entitled The Motor Chums and their Electric Branding Iron, or Alger High’s Football Victory.)

“Of course, interrogations are not the only way we have of obtaining information,” Ingram explained. “Local agencies supply us with much of value, as do informers, our own agents, and our latest addition to the arsenal of crime fighting—this.”

The agent held in his hand a device little larger than an ordinary Motor Chums volume.

“Say,” exclaimed Harry, “that’s a Wilshire 240-B, capable of picking up ordinary conversation and transmitting it up to two hundred yards!”

“And a great help it’s been,” said the secret policeman, “All over America such devices protect the ordinary citizen against socialists, pederasts, anarchists, and others who would destroy all America stands for. Chances are, where ever you happen to be in this great land of ours, you are within shouting distance of a State or Federal agent. If people only knew what we were doing for them they would be less critical of our methods. Of course Wilshires are actually outdated now, though many are still in use. Generally we prefer the more up-to-date Simpson.”

“Say,” objected Tom, “What’s all this about getting information? I thought the Secret Police was for catching spies and busting up dope rings.”

“Of course,” replied Ingram, “but we can’t do all that without first collecting and sorting the necessary information. The files—and there are thousands of them—are kept in a sub-basement for safety. To give you an idea of the amount, let me say that they would fill up ten monuments the size of the Burr memorial, and that another monument would be needed in five years.”

“Wow,” exclaimed Ned, “That’d make Ben Hangdog green with envy.”

“Who’s Ben Hangdog?” asked Ingram.

“He’s just the school sneak,” explained Tom, “He keeps files on everyone at Alger High.”

“Say,” suggested Ned, “Suppose some foreign agent got into the files? Isn’t that a danger to the F.S.?”

“We have means of preventing that,” replied Ingram. “For your protection the files are tended by agents who are sealed in, and so can never leave. To make their escape impossible, their legs are surgically removed before entry is allowed.”

“If that doesn’t beat all,” exclaimed Ned, “The government’s thought of everything.”

“Just about,” admitted Ingram.

They had only time to witness part of an interrogation of a WPA agent before Ingram was called back to his office. Back they went, eager to see what light might be shed on the mystery by the files of the Secret Police.

They spread out the files on the office floor, and be

[At this point there is a page missing in the MS. Mr. Ingram and the Motor Chums find out that Alphonse Notochord is in Washington to attend an airmeet flying Orville Risley’s plane, and they conclude that the plot is connected with certain strange workmen that have been seen at the White House attempting to bypass certain equipment]

… installed for the President’s protection. Bryan is in danger. With the aid of an airship we could smash this subversive ring and expose it to the light. Lads, your country calls you. Will you answer?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Tom.

“It’s a mean-spirited fellow that would turn down his country,” pointed out Ingram.

“It’s not that,” said Tom indignantly, “But the Star Rambler is in the shop, and it will cost a lot to get it in the air again.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Ingram assured him. “Just send the bill to the government.”

“Will the government pay the bill?” asked Ned.

“I don’t know,” admitted the other, “It depends on the Mexican situation. Tell you what, though. I’ll make you Special Agents Extraordinary, which entitles you to government expense accounts. Here,” and he handed the cardboard squares across to the chums. “Just fill in your names, and you’ll be all right. There’s an extra one for the colored lad, if he shows up.”

“All right,” said Tom, “We’ll do it.”

“Good,” rapped Ingram, “If we can break this, it’ll put us one up on Beveridge and his Department of Imperialism. Now, your first assignment will be to scout out the airmeet tomorrow and report on the Notochord lad.”

“Right,” said Tom, saluting snappily.

“One thing I am curious about,” put in Harry, “Why can’t the President tell us of these mysterious White House activities?”

“Yeah,” Ned supported him, “Bryan lives there.”

Ingram looked annoyed. “President Bryan is a busy man,” he observed, “It wouldn’t be proper to bother him.”

“But what if it’s an assassination plot?” asked Harry.

“Well lads,” chuckled Ingram, “There are reasons of state—” He stopped and banged his fist on the desk. “No,” he exclaimed, “I’ll tell you lads the truth. But I’ll have to swear you to secrecy.”

The lads swore.

“All right,” said Ingram, “This hasn’t left the offices of this building, and no-one outside it but the Cabinet, the Vice President, and the immediate family knows.”

His voice sank to a whisper. “President Bryan has gone insane.”