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 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.”

In Washington F.D for Fun and Profit

[A passage from The Motor Chums at Large, originally written 7 January 1973]

I

t was still early, and the sun was just beginning to touch the spires of the Capitol building with a ray of light. The Motor Chums marveled at the convoluted architecture and the fir-lined streets of America’s first city, where the affairs of entire nations were routinely conducted every day.

“This is something like,” exulted Ned, “We Motor Chums have been in a lot of strange places during our travels, but I never thought we’d come to this: Washington F.D.”

“Founded in 1790 by an accident of Congress,” Harry told them, “the capital city of the Federated States sits astride the mighty Potomac river, not far from Drake Bay. Washington was the first city to be planned expressly to rule a powerful empire, and is one of the glories of the civilized world. Build according to the DeGauss plan—“”

“Shut up and make yourself useful,” snarled Tom. “See if you can find the Smithsonian on this map.” He tossed the map to the aforementioned lad.

“Say, but that hits the spot,” observed Ned, finishing a sandwich, “I wish I had another plateful of ham and eggs, though.”

“I wish you did too,” agreed Tom, “for it would shut you up. Did you find the Smithsonian yet, Harry?”

“Yes, it’s right here, on the Street of Dreams,” point that lad.

“All right, let’s go find it,” said Tom.

“Yes, but where are we?” asked Harry.

“The sign says it’s the Street of Unsatisfied Desire,” Tom informed him.

“All right,” said Harry, “We go down the Street of the Lotus until we come to the Street of the Glorious Resurrection, turn left and keep on till we come to the Street of a Thousand Pleasures.”

“Sounds like the red light district,” murmured Ned.

“No, the Aaron Burr memorial’s located there,” Harry explained. “We turn right and keep on going until we get to the Street of Dreams and we’re there.”

“Let’s go,” said Tom.

“I think we should—ugh,” observed Harry. The interruption was caused by an abrupt collision with a mis-shapen giant which briefly knocked the wind out of him..

“Why’n’cha look where you’re goin’? demanded the figure.

“Sorry,” replied Fletcher.

“Dick!” exclaimed Ned, “It’s Dick Trefoil!”

“Yeah,” said the giant, who was now revealed as their long-time companion and fellow Motor Chum.

“How did you escape from the Smithsonian?” inquired Harry.

“Huh?” replied Trefoil.

“How’d you get away?” Ned wanted to know.

“Ain’t nobody going to stop me,” said the giant in surprise, “I just busted the cage and left.”

“It’s just like Payworthy to pull a stunt like this,” observed Harry bitterly, “Piling improbability upon improbability. I’ll wager we’ll next find Ashton and his cronies attacking the President on the street below.”

“There they are!” Ned shouted, pointing.

“No,” said Harry, “Not even Payworthy—”

“It’s Clarence Ashton and his cronies all right,” said Tom grimly. “They’re stealing fruit from that poor old lady’s fruit stand,”

“That’s just like the bastards,” put in Ned.

“That makes my blood boil,” cried Tom. “The idea of them following me to Washington. This has to be stopped once and for all. Those miscreants are up to no good, I’ll warrant.”

“Let’s get ’em,” suggested Ned.

“Yeah,” agreed Dick angrily.

At that the chums advanced rapidly down the street, to where the bullies were cruelly tormenting the old lady.

Clarence was holding her off while Alphonse shoveled armloads of fruit from the cart into a large sack. Ben Hangdog looked on, capering delightedly in the street and pouring out torrents of abuse. Passers-by paid scant attention to the little drama, perhaps being too engrossed in their own affairs, or perhaps merely inured to such sights.

Suddenly Ben caught sight of our heroes. His jaw dropped. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, “It’s the Motor Chums!”

“What’re they doing here?” gasped Clarence, turning green. “Run, you idiots!”

But the warning came too late. The Motor Chums bore down on the evil-doers like avenging furies. “Take that, you toady!” shouted Tom, aiming a well-placed kick at Ben Hangdog.

Clarence Ashton, though a bully, was nothing like a coward. He handed a blow to Harry Fletcher that knocked him flat. Ned avenged this insult by pelting the miscreants impartially with apples.

Alphonse Notochord seemed to have no intention of fighting, but under the steady barrage of fruit he grew impatient. Seizing the lady’s purse, he hurled it straight at short Ned Eliot. Catching it deftly, Ned paused to extract some of the contents, only to be felled by a foul blow from Ben Hangdog.

Dick Trefoil, a powerful though unscientific fighter, was making his presence felt by beating the shit out of Ashton. So intent was he in this task that he failed to see Notochord slip behind him with a cement wedge, which he hurdled with force and accuracy at the giant’s head.

Things were going badly for the Motor Chums. “This won’t do,” decided Tom. From his pocket he extracted his electric knife and advanced quickly on Notochord, who backed off. But unfortunately Ashton, though pummeled and breathless, was still conscious, and succeeded in tripping the young inventor, who fell headlong, nearly impaling himself on the knife.

At that moment, when things looked darkest for the Motor Chums, Dick Trefoil rose to his feet, a towering pillar of strength. With a mighty shove, he thrust the fruit cart straight at Alphonse Notochord. The cart rumbled slowly, picked up speed on the slope, and passed over Ashton’s head, rendering him unconscious. Alphonse, stunned in horror, gazed at the contraption bearing down on him and gave a mighty cry. The cart hit him squarely, bounced over the curb, and carried him into the street, right in front of a moving automobile. The collision was tremendous. Apples and oranges scattered over the entire width of the street.

“Jesus Christ,” breathed Tom, “Let’s get out of here.”

Ned staggered to his feet and picked up the sack of fruit and the old lady’s purse. Dick and Harry were already running down the road adds fast as their legs would carry them. Almost miraculously, it seemed to the fleeing chums, a policeman appeared out of nowhere at the scene of the battle and wrote the old lady a ticket.

The four lads paused to rest beside an embassy building. “Why’d you tell us to run?” demanded Dick.

“Because we Motor Chums have no need of reward for our good deeds,” replied Tom sternly. “It’s the duty of every American to do at least one good deed every day.”

Ned paused in his task of counting the money from the purse. “Say Tom,” he exclaimed, “Look at this! I don’t know if it means anything—” He passed a note to Tom.

“Where’d you get it?” Tom asked him, examining it closely.

“Ben dropped it during the fight.”

Harry snatched it from Tom. “It’s signed Ignatius Baxter!” he exclaimed.

“So?” inquired Ned.

“Ignatius Baxter is the Industrialist Senator from our state!”

“What’s it say?” asked Tom.

Ned read it, with many a strut and grimace, to the delighted Motor Chums. “‘Ben Hangdog: Let me say unofficially that the Industrialist Party greatly appreciates your efforts in our behalf. You have done the Party a great service. However, to be there when the will is to be probated is a mistake. The meeting should be at Jefferson. All ten were there to-night, but those at Cincinnati were Roosevelt’s. If you come, bring help. Ignatius Baxter.’”

“What the fuck is that supposed to be about?” exclaimed Tom. “It sounds like gibberish.”

Ned examined the paper closely. “No, it’s in English,” he chuckled. “What beats me is what it means.”

“There was something in those messages we decoded about a senator dying,” recalled Tom, “Do you suppose that could be the will referred to?”

“Yeah, but what about the meeting? And the ten? And those at Cincinnati? It doesn’t make sense,” objected Ned.

“Well, one thing’s plain at least,” asserted Tom, “Ben Hangdog’s involved in some dark scheme of the Senator against the President. Besides that, it’s a deep mystery.”

“The hell it is,” observed Harry, “The note contains one of the most asshole ideas I’ve ever heard of. It’s in cipher, if so simple an artifice deserves the name. Even you should be able to figure it out.”

The three chums studied the manuscript earnestly for a time, and then Tom hurled it away in disgust.

“Well, I give it up,” he exclaimed, “It’s too hard a riddle for me. What did you make of it, Ned?”

“I’m as puzzled as you, Tom,” said the lad addressed. “Come on, Harry, give us the clew.”

“All right,” said Harry, “Try taking every third word.”

“I never thought of that!” laughed Tom. But exuberance gave way to puzzlement. “Let unofficially Industrialists appreciates in,” he read. “That’s some secret message. It stays secret even when you decipher it.”

“What about ‘Say the greatly efforts behalf’?” suggested Ned. “That seems to make a sort of sense.”

Harry controlled himself. “Start after ‘however’,” he put in.

“There will be a meeting at ten to-night at Roosevelt’s come Ignatius,” read Tom. “Harry, I believe you’ve hit it!”

“That explains everything!” exclaimed Ned. “Ben’s tied up with those conspirators and Orville Risley somehow. And we’ve got to prove it.”

“We came to Washington to warn the President,” observed Harry, “No doubt our information will prove of value in assisting the authorities to defeat the plot.”

“It wouldn’t be right to hog all the glory,” agreed Tom, “I vote we take the clews to Mr. Ingram, whom we did a good turn back in The Motor Chums’ Aerial Search, or Lost in the Everglades for Nine Weeks.”

“Let’s go,” insisted Dick. 

Overhead, unnoticed by the Motor Chums, there flew an aeroplane whose wing bore the emblem of a double-headed vulture. It circled three times and vanished into the smoke.