The Moving Picture Boys at Panama - Victor Appleton
[Illustration: WITH A GRINDING CRASH THE EARTH ON WHICH JOE
STOOD WENT OUT FROM UNDER HIM.]
THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AT PANAMA
OR
Stirring Adventures Along the Great Canal
By
VICTOR APPLETON
1915
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I TO THE RESCUE
II ON THE BRINK
III A SURPRISE
IV A DELAYED LETTER
V ANOTHER SURPRISE
VI SOMETHING QUEER
VII IN NEW YORK
VIII OFF FOR PANAMA
IX THE LITTLE BOX
X THE SECRET CONFERENCE
XI ALONG THE CANAL
XII ALMOST AN ACCIDENT
XIII IN THE JUNGLE
XIV IN DIRE PERIL
XV IN CULEBRA CUT
XVI THE COLLISION
XVII THE EMERGENCY DAM
XVIII THE BIG SLIDE
XIX JOE'S PLIGHT
XX AT GATUN DAM
XXI MR. ALCANDO'S ABSENCE
XXII A WARNING
XXIII THE FLASHLIGHT
XXIV THE TICK-TICK
XXV MR. ALCANDO DISAPPEARS
THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AT PANAMA
CHAPTER I
TO THE RESCUE
With a series of puffs and chugs a big, shiny motor
cycle turned from the road into the graveled drive at the side of
a white farmhouse. Two boys sat on the creaking saddles. The one
at the front handle bars threw forward the clutch lever, and then
turned on the power sharply to drive the last of the gases out of
the twin cylinders.
The motor cycle came to a stop near a shed, and the two lads,
swinging off, looked at each other for a moment.
"Some ride, that!" observed one. "You had her going then, Blake!"
"Just a little, Joe--yes. It was a nice level stretch, and I
wanted to see what she could do."
"You didn't let her out to the full at that; did you?"
"I should say not!" answered the one who had ridden in front, and
guided the steed of steel and gasoline. "She'll do better than
ninety miles an hour on the level; but I don't want to ride on her
when she's doing it."
"Nor I. Well, it was a nice little run, all right. Funny, though,
that we didn't get any mail; wasn't it?"
"It sure was. I think somebody must be robbing the post-office,
for we ought to have had a letter from Mr. Hadley before this,"
and he laughed at his own joke.
"Yes," agreed Joe, "and I ought to have had one from--"
He stopped suddenly, and a blush suffused the tan of his cheeks.
"Might as well say it as think it," broke in Blake with another
laugh that showed his white, even teeth. "Hasn't Mabel written to
you this week?"
"What if she hasn't?" fired back Joe.
"Oh, nothing. Only--"
"Only I suppose you are put out because you haven't had a postcard
from Birdie Lee!" challenged Joe.
"Oh, well, have it your own way," and Blake, with a shrug of his
broad shoulders, began to wheel the motor cycle into the shed.
"No, but it is queer; isn't it?" went on Joe. "Here we've been
back from the flood district over two weeks now, and we haven't
had a line from Mr. Hadley. He promised to write, too, and let us
know what sort of moving pictures he might be in line for next.
Our vacation will soon be over, and we don't want to be idle."
"That's right," agreed his chum. "There's no money in sitting
around, when the film isn't running. Oh, well, I suppose Mr.
Hadley has been so busy that he hasn't had time to make his plans.
"Besides," Blake went on, "you know there was a lot of trouble
over the Mississippi flood pictures--reels of film getting lost,
and all that--to say nothing of the dangers our friends ran.
Birdie Lee said she'd never forget what they suffered."
"I don't blame her. Well, maybe they haven't got straightened out
enough yet to feel like writing. But it sure is nice here, and I
don't mind if we stay another week or so," and he looked up the
pleasant valley, on one side of which was perched the farmhouse
where the two moving picture boys had been spending their
vacation.
"It sure is nice," agreed Blake. "And it's lots more fun since we
got this motor cycle," for they had lately invested in the
powerful vehicle on which they had made many trips about the
surrounding country.
As Blake went to put the machine in the shed, which their
farmer-landlord had allowed them to use, Joe turned to glance back
along the road they had come.
The farmhouse was set up on a little hill, above the road, and a
glimpse of the highway could be had for a long distance. It was
the sight of something coming along this thoroughfare that
attracted Joe's attention.
"What are you looking at?" asked Blake, returning after having put
away the motor cycle.
"That horse and buggy. Looks to me as though that horse was
feeling his oats, and that the fellow driving him didn't know any
more about handling the reins than the law allows."
"That's right, Joe. If he doesn't look out he'll have an upset, or
a runaway."
The vehicle in question was a light buggy; drawn by a particularly
large and spirited horse. Seated in the carriage, as the boys
could see from their point of vantage, were two men. Who they were
could not be distinguished at that distance, but the carriage was
rapidly coming nearer.
"There he goes!" suddenly cried Joe.
As his chum spoke Blake saw that one of the reins had parted,
probably because the driver pulled on it too hard in trying to
bring the restive steed down to a walk.
Once the spirited horse felt that he was no longer under control,
save by one line, which was worse than none, he sprang forward,
and at once began to gallop, pulling after him the light carriage,
which swayed from side to side, threatening every moment to
collapse, overturn, or at least be torn loose from the horse.
"There he goes!" yelled Joe again.
"I should say so!" agreed Blake. "There are going to be some
doings soon!"
This was evident, for the horse was running away, a fact not only
apparent in itself, but heralded by the looks on the faces of the
two occupants of the carriage, and by their frightened cries,
which the wind easily carried to the watching Joe Duncan and Blake
Stewart.
On the road below them, and past the boys, swept the swaying
carriage in a cloud of dust. As it was momentarily lost to sight
behind a grassy knoll, Blake cried:
"The broken bridge, Joe! The broken bridge! They're headed right
for it!"
"That's right!" exclaimed his chum. "How can we stop them?"
Once having recognized the danger, the next thought that came to
the minds of Blake and Joe, trained for emergencies, was how to
avert it. They looked at each other for a second, not to gain a
delay, but to decide on the best possible plan of saving the
imperiled men.
"The broken bridge," murmured Blake again. "That horse will never
be able to make the turn into the temporary road, going at the
speed he is!"
"No, and he's probably so frightened that he'll not try it,"
agreed Joe. "He'll crash right through the barrier fence, and--"
He did not finish his sentence, but Blake knew what his chum
meant.
About half a mile beyond the farmhouse the road ran over a bridge
that spanned a deep and rocky ravine. About a week before there
had been an accident. Weakened by the passing of a heavy traction
threshing engine, it had been broken, and was ruled unsafe by the
county authorities.
Accordingly the bridge had been condemned and partially torn down,
a new structure being planned to replace it. But this new bridge
was not yet in place, though a frail, temporary span, open only to
foot passengers and very light vehicles, had been thrown across
the ravine.
The danger, though, was not so much in the temporary bridge, as in
the fact that the temporary road, connecting with it, left the
main and permanent highway at a sharp curve. Persons knowing of
the broken bridge made allowances for this curve, and approached
along the main road carefully, to make the turn safely into the
temporary highway.
But a maddened horse could not be expected to do this. He would
dash along the main road, and would not make the turn. Or, if he
did, going at the speed of this one, he would most certainly
overturn the carriage.
The main highway was fenced off a short distance on either side of
the broken bridge, but this barrier was of so frail a nature that
it could not be expected to stop a runaway.
"He'll crash right through it, run out on the end of the broken
bridge and----"
Once more Joe did not finish.
"We've got to do something!" cried Blake.
"Yes, but what?" asked Joe.
"We've got to save them!" cried Blake again, as he thought of the
two men in the carriage. He had had a glimpse of their faces as
the vehicle, drawn by the frenzied horse, swept past him on the
road below. One of the men he knew to be employed in the only
livery stable of Central Falls, on the outskirts of which he and
Joe were spending their holiday. The other man was a stranger.
Blake had only seen that he was a young man, rather good-looking,
and of a foreign cast of countenance. Blake had momentarily put
him down for an Italian.
"The motor cycle!" suddenly cried Joe.
"What?" asked Blake, only half comprehending.
"We might overtake them on the motor cycle!" repeated his chum.
A look of understanding came into Blake's eyes.
"That's right!" he cried. "Why didn't I think of that before,
instead of standing here mooning? I wonder if we've got time?"
"We'll make time!" cried Joe grimly. "Get her out, and we'll ride
for all we're worth. It'll be a race, Blake!"
"Yes. A race to save a life! Lucky she's got plenty of gas and oil
in her."
"Yes, and she hasn't had a chance to cool down. Run her out."
Blake fairly leaped toward the shed where he had wheeled the motor
cycle. In another instant he and Joe were trundling it down the
gravel walk to the road.
As they reached the highway they could hear, growing fainter and
fainter, the "thump-thud," of the hoofs of the runaway horse.
Joe held the machine upright while Blake vaulted to the forward
saddle and began to work the pedals to start the motor. The
cylinders were still hot from the recent run, and at the first
revolution the staccato explosions began.
"Jump up!" yelled Blake in his chum's ear--shouting above the
rattle and bang of the exhaust, for the muffler was open.
Joe sprang to leather, but before he was in his seat Blake was
letting in the friction clutch, and a moment later, at ever
gathering speed, the shining motor cycle was speeding down the
road to the rescue. Would Joe and Blake be in time?
CHAPTER II
ON THE BRINK
"What--what's your plan, Blake?" yelled Joe into
his chum's ear, as he sat behind him on the jolting second saddle
of the swaying motor cycle.
"What do you mean?" demanded Blake, half turning his head.
"I mean how are you going to stop that runaway, or rescue those
fellows?"
"I haven't thought, yet, but if we can get ahead of the horse we
may be able to stop him before he gets to the road-barrier or to
the dangerous turn."
"That's right!" panted Joe, the words being fairly jolted out of
him. "Head him off--I see!"
"Hold fast!" exclaimed Blake, as the conductor does when a trolley
car goes around a curve. "Hold fast!"
There was need of the advice, for a little turn in the road was
just ahead of them and Blake intended to take it at almost top
speed.
Bumping, swaying, jolting, spitting fire and smoke, with a rattle,
clatter and bang, on rushed the motor cycle on its errand of
rescue.
"Hark!" cried Joe, close to Blake's ear, "Listen!"
"Can't, with all this racket!" yelled back Blake, for he had
opened the throttle to gain a little increase of power. "What's
the matter?"
"I thought I heard the horse."
"Hearing him won't do any good," observed Blake grimly. "We've got
to see him and get ahead!"
And he turned on a little more gasoline.
While Blake and Joe are thus speeding to the rescue of the men in
the runaway, we will take a few moments to tell our new readers
something about the boys who are to figure prominently in this
story.
Joe Duncan and Blake Stewart were called the "Moving Picture
Boys," for an obvious reason. They took moving pictures. With
their curious box-like cameras, equipped with the thousand feet of
sensitive celluloid film, and the operating handle, they had risen
from the ranks of mere helpers to be expert operators. And now
they were qualified to take moving pictures of anything from a
crowd, shuffling along the street, to a more complicated scene, such
as a flood, earthquake or volcanic eruption. And, incidentally, I
might mention that they had been in all three of these last
situations.
The first volume of this series is called "The Moving Picture
Boys," and in that I introduced to you Blake and Joe.
They worked on adjoining farms, and one day they saw a company of
moving picture actors and actresses come to a stream, near where
they were, to take a "movie drama."
Naturally Blake and Joe were interested at once, and making the
acquaintance of Mr. Calvert Hadley, who was in charge of the
taking of the play, or "filming it," as the technical term has it,
the two boys were given an opportunity to get into the business.
They went to New York, and began the study of how moving pictures
are taken, developed from the films, the positives printed and
then, through the projecting machine, thrown on the screen more
than life size.
The process is an intricate one, and rather complicated, involving
much explanation. As I have already gone into it in detail in my
first book of this series, I will not repeat it here. Those of you
who wish to know more about the "movies" than you can gain by
looking at the interesting pictures in some theater, are
respectfully referred to the initial volume.
Joe and Blake were much interested in the Film Theatrical Company.
My former readers will well remember some members of that
organization--C.C. Piper, or "Gloomy," as he was called when not
referred to as just "C.C."; Birdie Lee, a pretty, vivacious girl;
Mabel Pierce, a new member of the company; Henry Robertson, who
played juvenile "leads"; Miss Shay, and others in whom you are
more or less interested.
After various adventures in New York City, taking films of all
sorts of perilous scenes, Joe and Blake went out West, their
adventures there being told in the volume of that name. They had
their fill of cowboys and Indians, and, incidentally, were in no
little danger.
Afterward they went to the Pacific Coast, thence to the jungle,
where many stirring wild animal scenes were obtained, and
afterward they had many adventures in Earthquake Land. There they
were in great danger from tremors of the earth, and from
volcanoes, but good luck, no less than good management, brought
them home with whole skins, and with their cases filled with rare
films.
Having finished in the land of uncertainty, the work assigned to
them by Mr. Hadley and his associates, Joe and Blake had gone for
their vacation to the farm of Mr. Hiram Baker, near Central Falls.
But their intention of enjoying a quiet stay was rudely
interrupted.
For not long after they had arrived, and were resting quietly
under a cherry tree in the shade, Mr. Ringold, with whom they were
also associated in moving picture work, called them up on the long
distance telephone to offer them a most curious assignment.
This was to go to the flooded Mississippi Valley, and get moving
pictures of the "Father of Waters" on one of "his" annual
rampages.
Of course Blake and Joe went, and their adventures in the flood
fill the volume immediately preceding this one.
And now they had returned, anticipating a second session of their
vacation. They had brought a motor cycle with which to go about
the pretty country surrounding Central Falls.
"For," reasoned Blake, "we haven't much time left this summer, and
if we want to enjoy ourselves we'll have to hustle. A motor cycle
is the most hustling thing I know of this side of an automobile,
and we can't afford that yet."
"I'm with you for a motor cycle," Joe had said. So one was
purchased, jointly.
It was on returning from a pleasant ride that our heroes had seen
the runaway with which we are immediately concerned. They were now
speeding after the maddened horse dragging the frail carriage,
hoping to get ahead of and stop the animal before it either
crashed into the frail barrier, and leaped into the ravine, or
upset the vehicle in trying to make the turn into the temporary
road.
"There he is!" suddenly cried Blake. The motor cycle, bearing the
two chums, had made the curve in the road successfully and was now
straightened up on a long, level stretch. And yet not so long,
either, for not more than a quarter of a mile ahead was another
turn, and then came the bridge.
"I see him!" answered Joe. "Can you make it?"
"I'm going to!" declared Blake, closing his lips firmly.
Every little bump and stone in the road seemed magnified because
of the speed at which they were moving. But Blake held the long
handles firmly, and, once the curve was passed, he turned the
rubber grip that let a little more gasoline flow into the
carbureter to be vaporized and sprayed into the cylinders, where
the electric spark exploded it with a bang.
"We--are--going--some!" panted Joe.
"Got--to!" assented Blake, grimly.
On swayed the thundering, rattling motor cycle. The carriage top
had either been let down, or some of the supports had broken, and
it had fallen, and the boys could now plainly see the two men on
the seat. They had not jumped, but they had evidently given up
trying to make the horse stop by pulling on the one rein, for the
animal was speeding straight down the center of the road.
"We aren't catching up to him very fast!" howled Joe into Blake's
ear, and he had to howl louder than usual, for they were then
passing along a portion of the road densely shaded by trees. In
fact the branches of the trees met overhead in a thick arch, and
it was like going through a leafy tunnel.
This top bower of twigs and branches threw back the noise of the
explosions of the motor cycle, and made an echo, above which it
was almost impossible to make one's voice heard.
"Look out!" suddenly cried Blake. "Hold fast!"
At first Joe imagined that his chum was going to make another
curve in the road, but none was at hand. Then, as Blake watched
his chum's right hand, he saw him slowly turn the movable rubber
handle that controls the gasoline supply. Blake was turning on
more power, though now the machine was running at a higher rate
than Joe or Blake had ever traveled before.
With a jump like that of a dog released from the leash, the motor
cycle seemed to spring forward. Indeed Joe must needs hold on, and
as he was not so favorably seated as was his chum, it became a
matter of no little trouble to maintain a grip with his legs and
hands.
"We--sure--are--going--some!" muttered Joe. But he did not open
his mouth any more. It was too dangerous at the speed they had
attained. A jolt over a stone, or a bit of wood, might send his
teeth through his tongue if he parted his jaws. So he kept quiet.
Ahead of them the carriage swayed and swerved. The horse was a
speedy one, but no creature of bone, blood, muscles and sinews can
distance a fire-spitting and smoke-eating machine like a motor
cycle. The distance was gradually being cut down.
But now, just ahead of them, was the curve, immediately beyond
which was the broken bridge, and also the temporary one, shunting
off at a sharp angle from the main highway.
"Look out! Hold on!" once more cried Blake, speaking in quick
tones.
For a moment Joe wondered at the added caution, and then he sensed
what Blake was about to do.
To one side of them stretched a level field. The road made a
slight detour about it, just before meeting the ravine, and by
crossing this field it was possible for the boys to reach the
bridge ahead of the swaying carriage. But at the speed they were
now running it was dangerous, and risky in the extreme, to run
across the uneven meadow. Blake, however, evidently was going to
chance it.
"Hold fast!" he cried once more, and Joe had no more than time to
take a firmer grip on the bar in front of him, and to cling with
his legs to the foot supports and saddle, than they were off the
road, and into the green field. The fence had been taken down to
allow for the storage of bridge-building material in the meadow.
"Now we'll get him!" cried Blake, but he spoke too soon. For the
motor cycle had not gone ten feet into the uneven field, jolting,
swaying and all but throwing off the moving picture boys, than the
sound of the explosions suddenly ceased, and the machine began to
slacken speed.
With a quickness that was added to by the rough nature of the
ground, the motor cycle slowed up and stopped.
"What's the matter?" cried Joe, putting down his feet to support
the machine.
"Something's busted--gasoline pipe, I guess!" cried Blake. "Come
on! We've got to run for it!"
The accident had occurred only a short distance from the road.
Together the two chums, leaping clear of the motor cycle, made for
it on the run.
But they were too late. They had a glimpse of the runaway horse
dashing straight at the fence barrier.
The next moment there was a splintering crash, and he was through
it.
"Oh!" cried Blake.
The thunder of the horse's hoofs on what was left of the wooden
approach to the broken bridge drowned his words.
Then the animal, with a leap, disappeared over the jagged edges of
the planks. The boys expected to see the carriage and the two
occupants follow, but to their intense surprise, the vehicle
swayed to one side, caught somehow on one of the king beams of the
bridge and hung there.
"Come on!" cried Blake, increasing his speed; "we've got a chance
of saving them yet!"
CHAPTER III
A SURPRISE
They reached--only just in time--the broken and
collapsed carriage with its two front wheels mere twisted and
splintered spokes. The moving picture boys reached it, and with
strong and capable hands pulled it back from the brink of the
ravine, over which it hung. In the depths below the horse lay,
very still and quiet.
"Pull back!" directed Blake, but Joe needed no urging. A slight
difference--inches only--meant safety or death--terrible injury at
best, for the ravine was a hundred feet deep. But those few inches
were on the side of safety.
So evenly was the carriage poised, that only a little strength was
needed to send it either way. But Joe and Blake pulled it back on
the unwrecked portion of the bridge approach.
The two men were still on the seat, but it had broken in the
middle, pitching them toward the center, and they were wedged
fast. Hank Duryee, the town livery driver, did not seem to be
hurt, though there was an anxious look on his face, and he was
very pale, which was unusual for him.
As for the other man he seemed to have fainted. His eyes were
closed, but his swarthy complexion permitted little diminution in
his color. There was a slight cut on his head, from which had
trickled a little blood that ran down to his white collar.
"Easy, boys!" cautioned Hank, and his voice rasped out in the
quiet that succeeded the staccato noise from the motor cycle. "Go
easy now! A touch'll send us down," and he gazed shudderingly into
the depths below.
"We've got you," Blake assured him, as he and Joe drew still
farther back on the platform of the bridge what was left of the
carriage. As they did so one of the rear wheels collapsed, letting
the seat down with a jerk.
"Oh!" gasped Hank, and a tremor seemed to go through the
insensible frame of the other.
"It's all right," Blake assured the livery stable driver. "You
can't fall far."
"Not as far as down--there," and Hank pointed a trembling finger
into the depths of the ravine.
"Can you get out--can you walk?" asked Joe.
"Yes. I'm more scared than hurt," Hank made answer.
"How about him?" asked Blake, motioning to the other occupant of
the carriage.
"Only a little cut on the head, where he banged, up against the
top irons, I guess. A little water will fetch him around. My! But
that was a close shave!"
He staggered out on the broken bridge. His legs were unsteady,
through weakness and fear, but not from any injury.
"How did it happen?" asked Joe.
"Horse got scared at something--I don't know what--and bolted. I
didn't want to take him out--he's an old spitfire anyhow, and
hasn't been driven in a week. But this feller was in a hurry," and
he nodded toward the unconscious man, "and I had to bring him out
with Rex--the only horse in the stable just then.
"I said I was afraid we'd have a smash-up, and we did. The line
busted near Baker's place, and--well, here we are."
"Better here than--down there," observed Joe in a low voice.
"That's right," agreed Hank. "Now let's see what we can do for
him. Hope he isn't much hurt, though I don't see how he could be."
"Who is he?" asked Blake, but the livery stable driver did not
answer. He was bending back the bent frame of the dashboard to
more easily get out the swarthy man. Joe and Blake, seeing what
he was trying to do, helped him.
Soon they were able to lift out the stranger, but there was no
need of carrying him, for he suddenly opened his eyes, straightened
up and stood on his feet, retaining a supporting hand on Hank's
shoulder.
"Where--where are we?" he asked, in a dazed way. "Did we fall?"