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Trackers of the Fog Pack; Or, Jack Ralston Flying Blind
Trackers of the Fog Pack / Jack Ralston Flying Blind
CHAPTER I
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.”