Reveille sounded at five o'clock. There was plenty to be done before the war game actually began. There were plans to be laid, codes to be determined, umpires to be consulted as to vague and indefinite rules, and all sorts of little things that in a real war would have adjusted themselves. But the Scouts were well out of the excitement. They struck their tents and handed them over, neatly arranged, with all their bedding, to the men from the commissary department.
"Sleeping bags for us, after to-day," explained Durland. "That is, if we have to sleep in the open. Sometimes we'll get a barn or a hayrick, or even a bed in a farmhouse. We won't worry about all that. But we're not going to sit still, and we can't scout and carry tents and dunnage of that sort along. So I said I'd turn it all in."
Then the Troop waited, quietly, for the orders that seemed so slow in coming. But they came at last. A young officer rode up on a horse that was dripping wet.
"General Harkness's compliments, Captain," he said, saluting Durland, "and you will take your Troop at once to Bremerton, on the State line. You will make your headquarters there, where a field telegraph station has been established. Please hold your Scouts for the stroke of twelve, when they may cross the line. The line for five miles on each side of Bremerton is in your territory."
"My compliments to General Harkness, and we will start at once," replied Durland.
And a moment later they were on the hike. There was plenty of time, since Bremerton was less than three miles away, and it was scarcely seven o'clock, but it was cooler then than it would be later, and Durland was glad to get his Troop away from the bustle and apparent confusion of the camp where the Red army was beginning to move.
"Where are the divisional headquarters to be to-day?" Durland asked a hurrying staff officer who passed just then.
"Hardport—across the line," the staff man replied, as he paused a moment. A wide grin illuminated his features. "That's nerve for you, eh? The old man's pretty foxy. He's going to start us moving so that we'll begin crossing the State line on the stroke of twelve, and he'll fling a brigade into Hardport before two o'clock."
Durland whistled.
"That's fine, if it works," he remarked to Dick Crawford, later. "But Hardport practically is the key to the railroad situation, and it isn't conceivable that the Blues will leave it unguarded. I'm inclined to be a wee bit dubious about that."
However, as he reflected, it was really none of his business. He was responsible for his own Troop, not for the conduct of the campaign, and that let him out.
It was a hot, hazy day, when the sun was fully up, and the Scouts marched into Bremerton, to find it a sleepy, lazy, old-fashioned little town. Above a building in the center the national flag was floating, and next to it a Red standard. Durland turned the Troop over to Dick Crawford, with instructions to make a bivouac near the centre of the little place, and then walked over to the building where the flag was flying.
As he surmised, it had become unexpectedly brigade headquarters for the fourth brigade of the Red army, which had left Guernsey before the breakfast call had been sounded for most of the army, and had arrived too soon.
"Where is your brigade, Tomlinson?" he asked a young officer, who almost ran into him as he came out.
"Oh, hello, Durland!" said the officer, wheeling briskly to shake hands with the Scout-Master. "Why, we're hidden in the woods. Old Beansy's fuming and fretting because he's here too soon. The men are lying back there, but he's moved up here for brigade headquarters because it's a field telegraph station and he can talk as much as he likes with General Harkness."
"Your brigade commander is Beansy, I take it?" said Durland, with a grin.
"You're right, he is! General Beverly Bean, bless him! He'll want to see you, too, now that you've blundered into his territory. Go on up—third door to the left!"
Durland stopped to report his arrival to division headquarters and then went on, getting into the presence of General Bean after a few minutes' delay.
"Glad to see you sir," said the testy old officer, who was a real soldier. "Suppose you know we're intended to get into Hardport just as soon after this war begins as we can get there."
"How soon will that be?" asked Durland.
"About two hours, if we're not cut to pieces on the way. I want your help here, Captain. Can you send some of your Scouts over there to investigate? I've an idea that getting into Hardport may be easier than getting out again. If Bliss knows his business, he will be regarding that as a pretty important place."
"I've orders to cover five miles each side of Bremerton," said Durland. "I can spare two Scouts for any duty you may wish done, General. Could they have a car?"
"Do they know how to run one?"
The question was asked in evident surprise, but Durland replied confidently.
"Yes, General," said he. "I've got two Scouts, at least, who are perfectly capable of handling an automobile under any conditions. I'd trust myself to them, no matter how hard the road might be."
"I'm glad to hear it," said the general, rather dryly. "I've got two of those new-fangled scout duty cars, with an armored hood and those new non-explosive tires, that can't be stopped by a bullet aimed at the wheels. But they didn't send me anyone to run them. There may be some chauffeurs in my brigade, but I'm not too anxious to take any men from their regiments. Here—I'll give you an order for one of the cars. Let your Scouts make the best use they can of it."
Durland had heard of the new scouting cars, but had never seen one. He went now, since there was plenty of time, to look it over, and found a heavy but high-powered and fast machine of a most unusual type.
The hood was armored, so that no stray bullets could reach the engine, as would be easy enough in the ordinary car. Similar protection was afforded to the big gasoline tank in the rear of the car, and the seats, intended for two men, were covered by a shield, also of bullet-proof armor, that was so pierced with small holes that the road ahead could be seen.
But the most extraordinary feature of the car was the new type of wheel. There were no tires in the ordinary sense at all. Instead, there was a tough, but springy steel substitute, and Durland spent an hour in looking the queer contrivance over, having first satisfied himself that the car was not sufficiently different from the ordinary automobile to make it impossible for Jack Danby to operate it. For it was Jack Danby he had had in mind when he asked for the use of the machine.
His friend Lieutenant Tomlinson came up while he was looking it over.
"Queer lookin' critter, isn't it?" said Tomlinson. He seemed quite enthusiastic. "I tell you what," he went on, "if that thing works out all right, it's going to revolutionize certain things in warfare. And it's perfect, theoretically. Tires are the things that have barred automobiles from use in warfare so far. Ping!—a bullet hits a tire, and the car is stalled. Or suppose the chauffeur wants to leave the road and go 'cross country? His tires again. He's afraid to."
"And this has tires that won't be afraid of bullets or rocks, either, eh?"
"I should say they wouldn't! Bullets wouldn't have a chance against that stuff. And the man who drives it is protected, too. That bullet-proof shield makes him as safe as if he were at home. And the blooming thing is good for sixty miles an hour over a half-way decent road—though it can be slowed down to just about two miles an hour, and still be ready for a quick jump."
"They're being used in both armies, aren't they?"
"Yes. There are about a dozen of them altogether. They're evenly divided, and both armies are under orders to try them out pretty thoroughly. If they make good, there will be a lot of them put in use by the regular army. They're making their own tests, but tests under actual service conditions count for more than any number of trials when all the conditions are made to order for the people who are trying to put the cars over."
It was Tomlinson's busy day, and he didn't have time to dally long in talk. So he went off, and Durland sent Tom Binns, who was acting as his orderly for the day, to bring Jack Danby to him.
Durland carried in his pockets a number of large scale maps of the sections all around the State line, in both of the States. The scale was two inches to the mile, so it took a considerable number of the maps to show at all adequately the theatre of the imaginary war. But so full of detail, thanks to the large scale, were the maps, that they showed every house in the territory they covered, and every grade. He spread three of these maps out, side by side, as he waited for Jack, and traced a course over them with a pencil.
Jack appeared in due time, and saluted—not with the Scout salute of thumb and little finger bent, with the three other fingers held straight up, but with the military salute.
"Danby," said Durland, "I'm going to entrust you with a piece of work that is so important that the whole result of the maneuvers may depend upon it. Do you think you can run that car?"
Jack, who had a positive genius for mechanical matters of all sorts, looked the strange looking car over carefully before he answered.
"It looks straight enough, sir," he said. "Self starter, I guess. And you ought to be able to go anywhere you like with those wheels. What is it that I am to do, sir?"
"I can explain better with these maps," said Durland. "Come close here, and I will show you what I mean."
Jack bent over the maps with the Scout-Master, and Durland began tracing a line with a sharp pencil.
"Here we are, in Bremerton," he said. "Now, about four miles across the State line is Hardport. You can see the smoke from its factories, and the railroad yards there, because it's quite an important little city. Now, there is a straight road from here that leads there—the continuation of this very road we are on now. What I want you to do is to circle around"—he pointed on the map—"and strike into Hardport from the other side. Find out, if possible, what troops of the Blue army are in the neighborhood, and particularly along this main road. If they occupy it in force, report as quickly as possible. If they advance immediately after war is declared, return, but try to see if there is not some way in which our own troops can get behind them."
"Am I to go into Hardport itself, sir?"
"Yes. And you need not stop, if challenged. Your car is regarded as bullet proof, and the only way in which they can legitimately capture you is by stretching a rope or providing some sort of an obstruction that enables two of them to get a foot on your running board. Remember your rights, and don't surrender to a mere challenge from a sentry. And keep your hood well down, so that they won't recognize you."
"I understand, sir. What time am I to start from here?"
"Start as soon as you like. You'd better get off and circle pretty widely, so as to get used to the car. But don't cross the State line, whatever you do, before twelve o'clock. That is strictly against orders."
There was a lot of good-natured talk among the Scouts when they heard of the great chance to distinguish himself that had come to the Assistant Patrol Leader of the Crows.
"Gee, Jack's lucky!" said one member of the Whip-poor-will Patrol.
"He is not!" defended Pete Stubbs, loyally. "He's a hard worker. He's spent a lot of his own time in the last year learnin' all about an automobile. He knows how to run one, and he knows how to fix it, too, if it goes wrong on a trip. That isn't luck, and don't you call it luck!"
"I didn't mean anything against Jack when I said he was lucky, Pete. No call to get so mad about it!"
"I'm not so mad, but it does get my goat to hear people say that everything that happens to Jack Danby that's good comes because he's lucky. I guess he isn't any luckier than any of the rest of us, but he sticks to the job harder."
No amount of coaxing, of course, would have induced Jack to tell what his orders were; and as a matter of fact, only one or two of the Scouts tried to find out. Durland had not even thought it necessary to warn Jack to be quiet, for he knew that Jack was on his honor as a Scout, and that nothing more was necessary to lead him to maintain a resolute silence on the subject of the strange scouting trip into the enemy's country which he was soon to begin.
"Good luck," cried the Scout-Master, finally, as Jack started off. "You know your orders—now make good!"