Project Gutenberg's Boy Scouts on Motorcycles, by G. Harvey Ralphson

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

Title: Boy Scouts on Motorcycles
With the Flying Squadron

Author: G. Harvey Ralphson

Release Date: March 6, 2004 [EBook #11469]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOY SCOUTS ON MOTORCYCLES ***

Produced by Sean Pobuda

Boy Scouts on Motorcycles

Or

With The Flying Squadron

By G. HARVEY RALPHSON

CHAPTER I

BOY SCOUTS IN A STRANGE LAND

"Fine country, this--to get out of!"

"What's the difficulty, kid?"

Jimmie McGraw, the first speaker, turned back to the interior of the
apartment in which he stood with a look of intense disgust on freckled
face.

"Oh, nothin' much," he replied, wrinkling his nose comically, "only
Broadway an' the Bowery are too far away from this town to ever amount
to anythin'. Say, how would you fellers like a chair in front of the
grate in the little old Black Bear Patrol clubroom, in the village of N.
Y.? What?"

The three boys lying, half covered with empty burlap bags, on the bare
earth at the back of the apartment chuckled softly as Jimmie's face
brightened at the small picture he drew verbally, of the luxurious Boy
Scout clubroom in the City of New York.

"New York is a barren island as compared with this place," one of the
boys, Jack Bosworth by name, declared. "Just think of the odor of the
Orient all around us!"

Jimmie wrinkled his nose in disdain and turned back to the window out of
which he had been looking. The other boys, Ned Nestor, of the Wolf
Patrol, and Jack Bosworth and Frank Shaw, of the Black Bear Patrol, all
of New York, pulled their coarse covering closer under their chins and
grinned at the impatient Jimmie, who was of the Wolf Patrol, and who was
just then on guard.

It wasn't much of a window that the boy looked out of, just an irregular
hole in a bare wall, innocent alike of sash and glass. Away to the east
rolled the restless waters of the Gulf of Pechili, which is little more
than a round bay swinging west from the mystical Yellow Sea.

To the south ran the swift current of the Peiho river, on the opposite
bank of which lay the twi