Boy Scouts in the Canal Zone: or, The Plot Against Uncle Sam

“All right,” Peter said. “Perhaps another jaguar will see the signal and give us a call.”

In a short time the boys had gathered two great piles of dry leaves and branches lying some fifty feet apart. Then a quantity of green boughs were gathered and placed on top of the dry fuel. When matches were touched to the piles a dense smoke ascended far above the tops of the trees. There were two straight columns of it lifting into the sky above the jungle.

“There!” cried Jimmie wiping the sweat from his face, for the morning was hot and the work had been arduous, “if there is a Boy Scout within ten thousand miles he’ll know what those two columns of smoke mean.”

“Of course,” said Peter. “If he’s ever been out camping.”

In the Indian signs adopted by the Boy Scouts of America one column of smoke means:

“The camp is here.”

Two mean:

“Help! I am lost.”

Three mean:

“We have good news.”

Four mean:

“Come to council.”

When the dry wood burned away the boys piled on more, keeping green leaves on top all the time, to make the smudge. After the fires had burned for half an hour a signal came from the thicket – a long, shrill whistle to attract attention, and then a few bars of “The Star Spangled Banner.”

“That’s a Boy Scout, all right,” Jimmie exclaimed, “but it ain’t none of our bunch. They wouldn’t wait to whistle. They’d jump right in an’ tell us where to head in at. You bet they would.”

In a moment a human hand, a slender, boyish hand, appeared above a great squatty plant at the foot of the knoll. The thumb and first finger were extended opened out, the three remaining fingers closed over the palm of the hand.

“Whoop!” yelled Jimmie. “The sign of the Silver Wolf.”

“Come on up,” cried Peter. “The appetite is fine.”

Then a boyish figure arose from the shelter of the plant and moved up the hill to where the boys stood. He was apparently about fifteen years of age, was dressed as a lad of his age might appear on Broadway, and presented a fresh, cheerful face, now wrinkled into smiles, to the boys waiting with extended hands.

“I saw you signal,” he said.

“Where are you from?” asked Jimmie, shaking the extended hand warmly. “We’re from the Black Bear and Wolf Patrols, New York, and we don’t know any more about getting along in the woods than a Houston street mucker.”

“I’m from the Black Bear Patrol of Chicago,” the other replied, “and my name is Anthony Chester, Tony for short. What you doing in the Devil’s Hole?”

“Is this the Devil’s Hole?” asked Jimmie.

“That is what they call it.”

“The Devil seems to be having a good time of it,” Peter said. “He’s had us on the hip all night.”

“We were in camp, father and I, about half way to the cut,” Tony said, “and heard your shots a spell ago. What did you kill?”

Briefly the boys told the story of the night, and then Peter asked:

“Why didn’t you answer the shots?”

“We were stalking jaguars,” was the reply, “and did not want to lose our game. The woods are full of them, for some reason, this spring.”

“Did you get them?”

“No; I guess the ones you got were the ones we were after.”

“Then I’m glad we got them, for we’ll divide the skins with you.”

“Then, a little while ago, I saw your smoke signal and read it to Dad, and he told me to come out and bring you to camp for breakfast.”

“What?”

“Breakfast?”

“Is it far?”

“Is it cooked?”

The boys fairly danced about their new acquaintance as they asked questions and rubbed their stomachs significantly.

“All cooked and all ready, plenty of it,” was the reply.

“Where is the camp?” asked Peter, then.

“Oh, just a short distance from the Culebra cut,” was the reply. “Dad came out here some weeks ago with me and one servant, and we’re living in a tent all fixed up with screens and things. The jaguars aroused us early this morning, so we got up to shoot them.”

“Is your father workin’ for the Canal people?” asked Jimmie.

“Oh, no,” was the reply. “He takes a great interest in the Culebra cut, and spends a good deal of time out there, but he is not working for the government. He’s just loafing, and I’m having the time of my life.”

“Does he go out there nights?” asked Jimmie.

“No; Sanee, the servant, is away nights, and Dad stays with me.”

“Never mind all that now,” Peter put in. “Let us go and see what they’ve got to eat. I could devour one of the cats we killed.”

Young Chester led the way toward the camp he had spoken of, the boys following, nearly exhausted from the exertions of the night. It had been arranged that they should return for the skins of the two jaguars they had slain.

As they straggled along through the jungle, Jimmie’s thoughts were busy over a problem which had come to his mind during the talk with the lad who had rescued them. Why was Mr. Chester, of Chicago, encamped in the jungle, at the edge, almost, of the Culebra cut, apparently without other motive than curiosity?

Why did he spend most of his time during daylight watching the work on the cut, and why was his servant invariably away from the camp at night? Were the men watching the work there for some sinister purpose of their own? Or was it merely a general interest in the big job that brought them there?

The man who had accosted them the previous evening had been watching the job, too. Were these men spies, or were they in the service of the government and watching for spies? It seemed odd to the boy that every adventure into which he stumbled had to do with the main object of the trip to the Canal Zone. Or, at least all the others had, and this meeting in the jungle might follow in the train of the others.

He was wondering, too, about the explosion they had heard early in the morning. At the time of his leaving the cottage with Lieutenant Gordon nothing had been decided on concerning the store of explosives which had been discovered in the underground chamber at the ruined temple. He did not believe that Ned would leave the deadly material there, to be used at will by the conspirators, so he was wondering now if the stuff had not been set off by his friends.