Trackers of the Fog Pack

Perk Sighs for Action

San Diego, in sunny Southern California, was looking its prettiest, with balmy breezes blowing softly; cloudless blue skies overhead; the usual throngs on the streets, and a general atmosphere of contentment resting over the entire place.

Already tourist pilgrims were beginning their annual migration from the cold lands of the north and northeast, seeking the more congenial climate along the picturesque Coast, where flowers bloomed throughout every month of the year; and outdoor sports of all descriptions tempted those inclined that way to participate.

But, just the same, there appeared to be one individual sauntering along Main Street, in a certain San Diego suburb, who did not seem to share in the general joyous spirit-this grumbler amidst such perfect surroundings was really an old friend of the reader, no other than Gabe Perkiser, familiarly known among his fellows of the flying fields by the shorter name of "Perk."

At his side stalked his bosom pal, Jack Ralston, in whose company latterly the said Perk had participated in a number of thrilling flying stunts, all of which have been narrated in the earlier books of this series of aviation stories.

Those who have enjoyed a previous recital of their adventures in the precarious vocation they followed, as policemen of the skies, need no further introduction to the pair of cronies. For the benefit of new readers, less fortunate, it may be said right here, before embarking on the latest and most thrilling of their recent exploits, that Jack and Perk were trusted members of Uncle Sam's wide-flung Secret Service organization; and on account of their clever and conscientious work, often entrusted with some of the most dangerous and difficult missions engaging the attention of the high "muck-a-muck" (Perk's definition) authorities at Washington Headquarters.

"What puts you in the dumps so, Perk?" Jack was asking, after noticing for the tenth time what a frown had settled on his chum's usually smiling phiz. "Dinner knocking harder than customary; or did you get a letter from your best girl, breaking off the engagement? Strikes me you're fast becoming a chronic crêpe-hanger these days."

"That's all hot air-boloney I'd call it, as yeou know right well, Jack!" Perk flung back. "Chow was all to the good-ain't got nary a best gal, an' never did have, neither-they're all rank pizen to me. Guess again, Mister."

"Then what does ail you, boy-something gone wrong with your plans-can I do anything to ease the strain? I'd go a long way to get you out of that black look, partner; you're worrying me a heap I allow."

The other stopped short on Main Street's pavement, and looked his companion straight in the face, actually smiling a bit in the bargain.

"Yeou would do jest that, ole pal, wouldn't yeou? I know I'm a tarnel fool to get stewed like this," he burst out; "an' orter be ashamed-I'm meanin' to kick outen it right away. Fact is, it's the same ole story, Jack-I'm gettin' fed up by things goin' too smooth. Guess it's in the blood-my Yankee ancestors they was all men o' action, doers o' things that called fur courage an' double risk. They set their seal on me, seems like; fur ever since I was a kid I've been on the hunt fur adventure by land an' sea; yeah, an' o' late years, in the air besides. That's all I gotter say; but blood'll tell ev'ry time."

"Well," remarked Jack, looking much relieved it could be seen. "I more than half suspected this, Perk; but cheer up-the longest lane must have its turning. Meanwhile we're getting our regular pay from our Uncle Samuel, remember!"

"But not earnin' a red cent, jest the same, which is what upsets me most," continued the complaining one. "Makes me feel like I'm sorter pensioned off, an' ain't worth the snap o' my fingers to the Service. Huh!"

"Nonsense, boy, that's a silly way of looking at things. We're just resting up after that difficult job we pulled off, with the help of the Mounted Police, far away up in Northwest Canada.[1] That successful flight, and arrest, earned us a vacation, our superiors believe; which I for one have enjoyed immensely. Now I'm feeling fine, and fit for the next commission the Big Boss decides to hand out to us."

"Hot-diggetty-dig! then I sure hopes it drifts this way right quick," Perk eagerly observed. "I kinder guess them racketeers an' their crowd o' bootleggers must a got things mighty near sewed up, when the Department lets us loaf away our time out here on the Gold Coast. If it keeps on we'll be apt to forget heow to handle a ship, an' get air shy-neow wouldn't that same be a tough joke on us poor guys?"

"Little danger of such a thing coming to pass, Perk-it's a whole bit like swimming-once you learn how to keep afloat it's good for a life-time."

"Mebbe so, Jack-I got a hunch it's the same way with ridin' a bike used to be-first few days yeou felt stiff in all yeour joints, ev'rything out o' kelter; but when a chump got used to guidin' the skittish wheel along it came as easy as fallin' off a log. Honest Injun, neow, Jack, ain't yeou any idea when we're apt to grab an order to get goin' again?"

"Any old day I'm looking for the same, Perk."

"Gosh! that don't strike me as givin' much encouragement, partner," Perk told his mate, aggrievedly.

"I wrote in ten days ago," Jack went on to say, quietly, "to say our ship was in first-class condition, while we were on deck, waiting for orders."

"Bully for yeou!" snapped Perk, brightening up visibly, as though, like a war horse at the scent of burnt powder making his nostrils quiver with anticipation. "I'm right neow yearnin' to set eyes on a different landscape than sleepy ol' San Diego, an' slow towns borderin' on the same."

Perk only stated a truth when he referred to his adventurous life. He was considerably older than his running mate, having been over in France when only eighteen years of age, handling a sausage balloon on the fighting line, and running into numerous close corners, having been shot down at least twice.

After the war was over he came home, and started learning the ropes of the new craze-flying; becoming a very good pilot in time, though a bit reckless, it must be admitted.

Then he drifted into the lumber camps, and played logger for a few seasons. After that Perk, who was proud of having a strain of Canadian blood along with his Yankee heritage, turned up among the Mounties in the Far Northwest regions and spent some years doing service with those dashing officers enforcing the Law of the wilderness.

Meeting up with Jack Ralston-after being coaxed to throw his fortunes in with the Secret Service at Washington, he took a strong liking for the bright-witted youngster, and they had been boon comrades ever since, sharing their blankets, meeting all manner of peril in company, and becoming what might be called real "blood brothers."

So, too, had Jack been through some interesting experiences, although not of the same thrilling character as those Perk could look back to, when musing of the past.

He had had a run of circus training, being a natural athlete; and on the bills had been advertised as a famous trapeze performer. Then naturally the lure of the air gripped Jack, and forsaking the sawdust ring he began making parachute drops with one of those barnstorming aviators possessing a dilapidated crate with which he was wont to give exhibitions at Harvest Home festivals, and County Fairs all over the West-just as Lindbergh did in his school days.

It was in this fashion that young Ralston learned to be a clever pilot; and possibly his skill at the controls was one leading factor bringing about an earnest invitation for him to join up with the Secret Service-about that time it became evident that a new branch of the Law organization must be built up, in order to compete with the lawless smuggling gangs that were already using airplanes with which to fetch contraband of every description into the country.

So well did the pair co-operate that they worked as two parts of the whole machine-as one hand knows what the other hand requires to make a finished product so their brains often worked in unison, thus adding additional strength to their united efforts.

As they continued their walk, meaning to return to the city in time for lunch, Perk continued to ramble on with observations covering much ground; for he had a decided opinion on every variety of subject, and could be depended on to exploit his ideas at the slightest invitation.

"No use talkin,' Jack," he was saying, as he tapped his pocket significantly, "that same Jerry Slocum's a crackin' good locksmith an' gunsmith. I took up with his offer, yeou know, to put my ol' six-shooter, used in France with my work in the sausage balloon corps, in apple-pie condition; an' he done a smart job. He happened to have some ammunition to fit the gun, so I laid in a bunch o' cartridges, meanin' to shoot at a target when time hung heavy on my hands. But listen, will yeou, ol' pard, what's all that whoopin' mean 'round the corner jest ahead-sounds like a reg'lar stampede was takin' place, I'd say if yeou asked me?"

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[1]

See "Sky Pilots' Great Chase."