Read Online Mad Scientists' Club by Bertrand R. Brinley, Charles Geer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bertrand R. Brinley, Charles Geer
Tags: Fiction, Science Clubs
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recognize who was here."
"Jeepers!" said Freddy. "You scientists think of everything."
We wired the circuit so the radio beacon and the camera were hidden in a tree back of the cannon, and went back to the clubhouse.
Mortimer developed the pictures Henry had taken as soon as we got back to our lab. We all crowded around Henry as he peered at the negatives over a light box. The first two didn't seem to have anything at all on them. But the third negative showed something leaning against the wall of the cannon's chamber that looked like the leather handle on an old satchel.
"We'll have to enlarge this one and get a good, clear print," Henry said. "I think I see something interesting here."
Mortimer stuck the negative in the enlarger and turned out all the lights in the lab. He blew it up as big as he could, and we all held our breath as he brought it into focus. When he got it good and sharp, we could all see what Henry was talking about. The outline of the handle was very clear, and right beneath it, on the top of the satchel, was a metal name-plate. You could make out the initials easily. They were E.M.S.
The next morning we were all at the clubhouse early for a strategy meeting. Mortimer was over in the corner where we have all our ham radio gear set up, checking the ink trace on the oscillograph we had hooked up to our receiver. He pointed to a place where the needle had made a jagged line on the graph paper. "Someone was out there by the cannon about midnight," he said excitedly.
"I'll bet Harmon went back out there after we left," said Jeff.
"Let's go out there and see if we got a picture of him," said Henry. "Maybe we can tell who it was."
Just then the needle on the recorder started to jiggle again. We all looked at it for a minute, and it gave me a funny feeling. There was somebody up by the cannon, thinking he was all alone, and here we were, about five miles away, practically watching his every move on a piece of paper.
Mortimer turned up the volume on the receiver. We could hear the beep, beep, beep of the radio beacon every time the visitor moved near the cannon.
"Let's get out there!" said Homer. "We ought to find out who it is."
"Maybe we should have bugged it with a microphone," Mortimer declared, "so we could listen in on what they're saying."
"Maybe it's just a couple of old cows having a bull session," said Dinky to Freddy Muldoon.
"That's all right," observed Freddy, with the back of his hand to his face. "Mortimer digs that stuff. He could understand what they're saying!"
It was still early morning when we got out to Memorial Point and hid our bicycles in the brush. We split up into two groups for the climb up the hill, so we could approach the clearing from both sides.
Jeff and Henry and I were just about a hundred yards from the clearing when we heard the thump of a rifle shot and the twang of a bullet ricocheting off metal. We froze in our tracks, not daring to move or breathe. Finally Henry whispered, "That sounded like a big-bore rifle."
We fell flat on our stomachs in the brush as two wild-eyed figures came dashing pell-mell down the path from the clearing. In the lead by a good margin was Harmon Muldoon, using his best running form. Thumping behind him came the ponderous form of Abner Sharples, his tie fluttering wildly in the breeze and his hat clapped to the back of his head by a pudgy hand. They passed within three feet of us, but they were so intent on getting down off Brake Hill in record time that they didn't even see us. Harmon was right out of sight in no time, and the last we saw of Abner Sharples was his coattail flying through the air as his feet went out from under him on a sharp turn, and he went rolling down the hill like a barrel of lard. His hat flew off his head and landed on a bush.
"I'll bet he beats Harmon to the bottom," said Henry, as he scrambled over to retrieve the hat.
"He sure took a short cut," Jeff snickered. "I wonder what Abner was doing up here?"
"I
"Jeepers!" said Freddy. "You scientists think of everything."
We wired the circuit so the radio beacon and the camera were hidden in a tree back of the cannon, and went back to the clubhouse.
Mortimer developed the pictures Henry had taken as soon as we got back to our lab. We all crowded around Henry as he peered at the negatives over a light box. The first two didn't seem to have anything at all on them. But the third negative showed something leaning against the wall of the cannon's chamber that looked like the leather handle on an old satchel.
"We'll have to enlarge this one and get a good, clear print," Henry said. "I think I see something interesting here."
Mortimer stuck the negative in the enlarger and turned out all the lights in the lab. He blew it up as big as he could, and we all held our breath as he brought it into focus. When he got it good and sharp, we could all see what Henry was talking about. The outline of the handle was very clear, and right beneath it, on the top of the satchel, was a metal name-plate. You could make out the initials easily. They were E.M.S.
The next morning we were all at the clubhouse early for a strategy meeting. Mortimer was over in the corner where we have all our ham radio gear set up, checking the ink trace on the oscillograph we had hooked up to our receiver. He pointed to a place where the needle had made a jagged line on the graph paper. "Someone was out there by the cannon about midnight," he said excitedly.
"I'll bet Harmon went back out there after we left," said Jeff.
"Let's go out there and see if we got a picture of him," said Henry. "Maybe we can tell who it was."
Just then the needle on the recorder started to jiggle again. We all looked at it for a minute, and it gave me a funny feeling. There was somebody up by the cannon, thinking he was all alone, and here we were, about five miles away, practically watching his every move on a piece of paper.
Mortimer turned up the volume on the receiver. We could hear the beep, beep, beep of the radio beacon every time the visitor moved near the cannon.
"Let's get out there!" said Homer. "We ought to find out who it is."
"Maybe we should have bugged it with a microphone," Mortimer declared, "so we could listen in on what they're saying."
"Maybe it's just a couple of old cows having a bull session," said Dinky to Freddy Muldoon.
"That's all right," observed Freddy, with the back of his hand to his face. "Mortimer digs that stuff. He could understand what they're saying!"
It was still early morning when we got out to Memorial Point and hid our bicycles in the brush. We split up into two groups for the climb up the hill, so we could approach the clearing from both sides.
Jeff and Henry and I were just about a hundred yards from the clearing when we heard the thump of a rifle shot and the twang of a bullet ricocheting off metal. We froze in our tracks, not daring to move or breathe. Finally Henry whispered, "That sounded like a big-bore rifle."
We fell flat on our stomachs in the brush as two wild-eyed figures came dashing pell-mell down the path from the clearing. In the lead by a good margin was Harmon Muldoon, using his best running form. Thumping behind him came the ponderous form of Abner Sharples, his tie fluttering wildly in the breeze and his hat clapped to the back of his head by a pudgy hand. They passed within three feet of us, but they were so intent on getting down off Brake Hill in record time that they didn't even see us. Harmon was right out of sight in no time, and the last we saw of Abner Sharples was his coattail flying through the air as his feet went out from under him on a sharp turn, and he went rolling down the hill like a barrel of lard. His hat flew off his head and landed on a bush.
"I'll bet he beats Harmon to the bottom," said Henry, as he scrambled over to retrieve the hat.
"He sure took a short cut," Jeff snickered. "I wonder what Abner was doing up here?"
"I
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