Lion Annual 1955 a Puke (TM) Audiobook

Lion.
Annual 1955.

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For boys of all ages.

Rex fights the Jungle Menace!

See story at page 112.

Lion.
Annual 1955.

Issued from The fleet way house, Farrington Street, London.

Contents.
Friends fly in from all around the world.

Page 3.
Captain Condor and the Robot Spacemen.
By Frank S Pepper.

Space Captain Condor was a space pilot in the Year 3000.
When outlawed by the ruthless dictator of the planets, he and his comrades escaped to an uncharted moon called Zor.
There they built a secret headquarters.
One day they learnt that the dictator had arrested another band of men who dared to defy him, and was sending them to the terrible sunbaked deserts of mercury.
Condor decided at once to rescue them from the transport in which they were being carried.

With the aid of radar, Captain Condor located the transport midway between earth and mercury.
He and his pal, Pete, eagerly watched it through the navigation window of their space-ship.

There she is, Pete. And I’ll bet every one of those four main cabins is jammed to suffocation with men who had the pluck to fight the dictator.

But she’s got a cruiser escort, Captain. We didn’t bargain for that!

Undaunted, Condor turned his spaceship towards the great warship.
That makes no difference, Pete. Those prisoners wee condemned because they defied the dictator. We won’t let them down. Give the order “Action Stations for an attack.”

Aboard the dictator’s cruiser.

By Jupiter, its Condor’s ship!
He must be planning a rescue. He’s coming for us at full speed.
Sound the combat alarm. Order the transport to stand clear.
Condors gun crews stood ready for battle.

We’re coming into range. Steady! Steady! Fire!

Condor’s record as a fighter had made him the space-navy’s most dreaded foe.

Keep it up, men.
They’re groggy already. There goes the stern tube.

Hold on!
Any man who leaves his post will be shot. We mustn’t be beaten by an outlaw like Condor.

Condor’s Gunners, However, fought magnificently. More and more direct hits were scored on the cruiser. And Suddenly Condor gave a shout of triumph.

Hurrah!
They’ve had enough lads. They’re running away!
Well done, everyone!

Page four:

Condor led a boarding party on to the transport, where the prisoners greeted him with wild excitement.
Their guards surrendered without a fight.

As commander, I am surrendering my ship to you, Captain Condor.
Stray shells have caused quite a lot of damage, and a number of my crew are wounded.

Thank you Commander. I will take over.

After a quick look around, Condor had the wounded and the captured crews transferred to his own space-ship, and ordered it to be flown at top speed to Zor.
He and Pete, with a squad of Engineers, stayed on the transport.
In its damaged state it would have to be driven at half speed.
It was after the other space-ship had gone that Pete rushed up to Condor.

Captain, I’ve got bad news!
The fuel tanks were more badly damaged than we thought.
Vibration has now made them leak like sieves!

Condor hurried along with Pete to inspect the main tank.

Phew!
That looks bad!
How muck fuel have we left?

I can’t say for sure.
Most of the gauges are out of action.

Condor and Pete examined the tanks one by one well knowing that a sure supply of fuel was a matter of life and death to the ship.

It’s even worse than I thought.
Landing safety on Zor is absolutely impossible with the little fuel we’ve got.
Whatever can we do Captain?

I know one possible way out.
There’s a fuel supply on the artificial moon M 13.
We’ll land there. We could be there in nine hours.

Condor’s suggestion bought a gasp from Pete.

But M13 is one of the Dictators Naval deports.
Its armed to the teeth. We’d either be captured or blown to bits.

Without fuel this ship is a death trap.
If we can reach M 13 it will are least give us a chance.

Condor returned to the navigation dome, where he began to lay his plans.

Here’s your course.
Keep us headed for M13 while I organize the repair of the fuel tanks.

The artificial moon known as M 13 was used as a supply base for the space-cruisers.
It was armed to beat of the most powerful attacks,
Already detectors had picked up Condor’s ship, and orders were being broadcast.

Attention M 13 defenders.
Unidentified ship entering our area.
It may be the transport reported to have been captured by Captain Condor.
Be on guard for possible Attack.

When challenging signals were sent out from M13 to the approaching ship went unanswered, the commander of the artificial moon issued emergency measures.

Order the Trok-Leader and the Greb-Leaders to assemble in the briefing room. I’ll speak to them on the telecaster.

M13 was garrisoned mainly by electronic mechanical men.
Those used as mechanics were called Grebs. The labour squads were called Troks.
But both Grebs and Troks could be employed as fighting troops. Each platoon had a human leader.

Trok.
Greb.

The platoon leaders, each attended either by a Trok or a Greb, gathered in the briefing room.
They could see the commanders face on the telecaster.

The approaching ship is undoubtedly piloted by Captain Condor. In know of only one reason why he should come here. That is to get fuel.
So this is out chance to capture him.

Meanwhile, Condor had been busy in the workshop of the Space-Transport.
He had cleverly made something which, when finished, he showed to Pete.

How do you like this fellow?

Suffering Satellites!
What in the name of Saturn is it?

I’ve made it to look like one of the mechanical men I saw on M13 years ago.
Actually its hollow. But I’m going to get inside it so as to avoid being recognized when I land.

Condor had made his plans well.
He intended to stop the space transport when it was still at a good distance from M13, rather than risk its destruction by the defenders.
A remote-controlled patrol boat would then be packed with electronic transmitters, and sent in the direction of the artificial moon.
The transmitters were specially constructed to jam the defenders locators.
Condor would then be able to approach M13 undetected in another patrol boat.

When the remote controlled boat had been sent on its way, Condor prepared to set off in the second boat. Beside him was the dummy mechanical man.

Remember Pete, you are to stay well out of range.

Okay captain.
But I’d rather be going with you!

A moment later Condor was on the way to M13

If this comes off, you and I are in for an exciting time, my dummy friend!

Before long, in the control room of M13, the commander and his assistants were gazing at their instruments in bewilderment.

There’s something queer out there.
It’s a device that’s jamming our locators.

Suddenly the defender spotted the cause of the trouble. None knew that it was the pilotless, decoy craft sent out by Condor.
There it is, but what is it?

Never mind what it is. Order the Grebs to open fire.

With terrific firepower concentrated upon it, the decoy crat lasted only a few minutes.

There had been sufficient time, however, for Captain Condor to land unsuspected on another part of M13.

Condor alighted in a hangar and swiftly began to get inside the dummy mechanical man which he had bought with him.

Gosh. What a stroke of Luck!
There’s a fuel space tanker over there.
But I’ll have to find a crew to man it.

Condor went to the outer platform.
A Trok-leader was rushing a party of Mechanical men towards the crashed patrol boat.
Unrecognized, Condor joined them.

Troks. This way. Follow me.

Gee. What a shock I’ll give him!

The leaser called on the mechanical men to halt.
But, to his amazement, one of them ignored his order.

Troks! I said Halt! What the.

The leader was almost petrified with Horror.
For the rebellious Trok advanced upon him menacingly.

Help!
Somethings’ gone wrong!

With one devastating punch, Condor completely knocked out the leader.
At the same time, he grabbed the man’s radio vibrator control rod.

Condor then swung round on the mechanical men and rapped out an order.

Troks!
Follow me to the launching bay.

But Condors’ plan to seize the space tanker was about to have an unexpected set back.
For a platoon of Greb mechanics had entered the launching bay. Condor at once ordered his mechanical troops to attack them.

The next moment, a tremendous battle between Condors Troks and the Grebs was being waged.
Filled with terror, the Greb’s platoon leader bolted.

Attack!
Attack! Don’t let any of them escape!

The platoon leader yelled news to the control tower.

Help! Help! The Troks are fighting the Grebs!

The commander of M13 refused to believe the frantic report.

Help! Help!

Impossible! Mechanical men can’t revolt! There must be a fault in the generators.

There isn’t sir! Everything is working perfectly.

Meanwhile, His Troks having destroyed the Grebs, Condor darted across to the tanker. Swiftly he set the controls so that it would automatically steer for the transport. Then he leapt out.

Troks. You, you and you. Take this tanker out to the space ship. You, you and you. Guard the stairway.

Obeying Condors orders, the crew of mechanical men set off in the space tanker.
The commander of M 13 could hardly believe his eyes!

Look! They have stolen a space tanker. It isn’t possible. Yet it has happened!

Condor darted to the cockpit of his patrol boar and radioed Pete.

Condor calling space ship. Tanker on its way. Stay out of range of M13 space guns.

Condor’s radio message was picked up by the M13 reciever and heard by the commander.

Did you hear that?
It explains everything. Condor is in control of some of the Troks. But how did he get here? The launching bay must be recaptured at once. Send another squad of Grebs into action.

Seeing the grebs coming, Condor was ready for them with his own mechanical men.

Troks.
Fight to the last. Don’t let them break through.

Back on the spaceship, Pete and Company thrilled as the saw the fuel tanker approaching.

Here it comes! Condor’s got through.

We’re saved! Hurrah!

The two space-craft got into position in readiness into position in readiness to fill the transports repaired fuel tanks.

On M 13 more Grebs had been flung into action, and Condor’s Troks were now on the defensive. Desperately he radioed Pete again.

Aren’t the tanks full yet? We can’t hold on much longer.

On the transport Pete was shouting a triumphant order.

Tanks full, release the fuel tube.

By now, on M13, the last Trok defender had fallen, and the Grebs hurled themselves at Condor.

Listen carefully, Pete. I want you to reverse the tankers controls, and adjust the directional beam so that the vessel goes dead straight for the control tower of M13.

With its crew of mindless mechanical men, the tanker came speeding back to M13.

The control tower was straight ahead. But this meant nothing to the Troks onboard.

Condor, however, seemed doomed by the overwhelming number of Grebs.

At that instant the space tanker crashed through the dome of M13. To shatter the control tower in a blinding explosion.

All power was at once cut off from the Grebs, and every one of them sank down as if dead.

Phew!
That was hot while it lasted. Now to get back to my patrol boat and return to Pete and the rest.

Pinned down by the debris in the Control room, the dictators men could do nothing to stop Captain Condor escaping.

Look! Condor’s getting away in a tiny space-ship!

The outlaws has beaten the lot of us!

Condors patrol boat carried him safely back to the space-transport, and the mighty vessel continued on its journey to Zor and freedom. The captain had gained another victory.

Bravo Captain! You’ve saved us all from exile!

Down with the dictator! We’ll help you to fight him until his power is smashed!

That’ll be the day, boys!

Rory. Mick the Mounties Dog.
By Victor Norman.

Tricking Mountie mick.
Rory, dog assistant to Corporal Mick Mackenzie of the Mounties, walked at his master's heels along the main street of the North Canadian backwoods town. They were off duty, on foot, for Mick had some shopping to do, and of course where Mick went, Rory had to go. Behind them came a tapping sound, and Rory looked round. A stooping man came along the pavement, tapping it with his stick. He wore dark glasses, and had his hat turned down. Rory, alert, saw him move to the edge of the kerb, and saw that the man's movements were unsteady and nervous. Something was wrong. He was ill perhaps. Mick had been ill once after flu, and Rory had had to keep a close, and watchful eye on him when he was weak from the after-effects. This matt seemed to be in bad shape, and Rory, trained to notice men, looked up at Mick to give him a nudge. But Mick had met a friend and was talking to him. Down the road came a heavy waggon, and the man in the dark glasses made to step off the kerb almost under the waggon's wheels! It was time for action, and Rory acted. He jumped with a warning growl. Hearing the growl, Mick turned in alarm. “Hey, Rory!” he said in surprise. But Rory was not, as Mick thought at first glance, about to leap at the man and attack him. Rory was heading the man back safely to the kerb. And just in time, it seemed. Had he been a moment later, the man might have been under the waggon. “Whoa, mister," said Mick sharply, taking the man's arm. “Take it easy. I'll see you over the road." And added under his breath, “Gosh, the poor chap's blind." The man drew back from Rory and tapped him gently with the stick, and although Rory did not as a rule like being touched with sticks, he knew that this was all right. “Thank you, mister," came the man's reply. “Fraid I've lost my four-footed eyes." “Four-footed eyes? Ah, your dog!” said Mick sympathetically. “Well, that's tough for a man in your state. But you'll be all right at the moment. My dog there, Rory, saved you. He's trained, police trained, in fact like me, a Mountie. You can rely on him. Hook your stick in his collar and he'll be your guide, eh, Rory?”
Could Rory Outsmart the Backwoods' Most Ruthless Bank-Robber?

Mick took the crook of the man's stick, fixed it through Rory's collar. Then he ordered Rory across the road. Rory looked right and left. He knew when the road was safe for crossing and he took his responsibility seriously. Over the road they went to the far side. "Live far away?" Mick asked the man." Mebbe I could take you there in a few minutes' time. I've got an urgent appointment at the moment."
"I have to go down the road, first left, first right, and then over the next road. But don't you bother," said the man with a heavy sigh, "I daresay I'll manage." Mick did not mean to let the blind man go on alone. He had an appointment that would not wait, but Rory was free. "If you'd like to borrow Rory," Mick said, "he'll be only too glad to help." Rory looked up, and seemed to understand. He had had many strange jobs to do, guarding prisoners, crooks of all kind, even escorting children. "That's mighty kind of you, Sergeant," said the man, gratefully. "Corporal, Corporal Mackenzie, of the Mounties," corrected Mick gently. "Thank you. I am Fred Kershaw, afflicted as you can judge, with more than poor eyesight, and not too good hearing. I shall be most grateful for the loan of your dog for say half an hour. Can he find his own way back?"
“From the North Pole if necessary," smiled Mick with no hint of boasting. He patted Rory's head, and then said, "Good man. Guard!" "Bad man. Guard" would have meant something else, for Rory had been trained to recognise the difference between the two. Rory, with the stick in his collar, went with the man. "Go on, dog, straight on," said the man. Rory looked back at Mick, but as this was a job, he only looked back the once and gave a kind of "I'll be seeing you" look. Then he steered his charge along the street. It was easy work, and Rory turned right or left as told, making sure that the way was safe, and sometimes brushing aside careless walkers. He was well known in this town where he and Mick came often, although Rory's fame had spread far and wide, and crooks feared him. The ordinary, honest citizens, of course, liked him, and the more crooks he raked in, the higher Rory's stock rose. Though there were some who sneered, and jeered and scoffed, and said it was all luck. Rory led Fred Kershaw to where he wanted to go, a house in the centre of the town where rooms were let. The man groped for the door, unlatched it. Rory went in with him, then through another into the right-hand room. The man closed the door.
Rory sat down. What now? Still guard? He settled down and watched the man, wondering. "Well, you're a mighty smart dog," said Kershaw with a short laugh. That laugh made Rory stiffen. He knew that kind of laugh, almost a jeer. It was the way crooks laughed at him. So he gave the man a keener searching look and, even though Mick had said the man was good, Rory became watchful. He hadn't liked the short laugh. "Hang on a minute, dog," said the man. He walked to a cupboard, opened the door, looked inside, brought out a biscuit and tossed it to Rory. Then he went to an armchair, sat down, yawned, picked up a newspaper, and began to read it. Rory had his limits, and he didn't know that keen eyesight was needed to read the paper. If Mick had been there, he would have instantly been suspicious. But Rory was a dog. He wasn't to realise that the man was putting on an act, and could see as well as Rory or Mick. The man suddenly picked up a pencil and scribbled a message on a pad. "This is for you to take your master, Rory," Kershaw said, and gave the same short jeering laugh. "I'll read it to you as you're so clever." "Kershaw the Blind Man," he read, "asked me to write this note, Corporal, and thank you for your dog's help. He would like to ask you a favour. Could he borrow Rory for just an hour this afternoon?" Rory, ears back, sat with head on side. He did not touch the biscuit, for he was worried. He no longer trusted this man. What cunning scheme had Kershaw in mind?
RORY. BANK ROBBER!
THE "blind man" bent over Rory, rolled the note, and fitted it round his collar. Because Mick had sent messages in that way, it made some kind of sense to Rory, and he did not resist. But as soon as it was on the collar, he went to the door and scratched, gave a short bark, and looked up at the man. He wanted to go. "At your service," said Kershaw, opening the door. Rory trotted off. He went straight to the office where Mick was having a talk with an old friend. Rory was worried. He knew Mick trusted the man, but now he was suspicious. But how could Rory warn Mick that the man wasn't a "Good Man" after all? Rory waited outside the office door. But he started up as he heard the scrape of a chair. He knew the sounds. They meant that soon Mick would open the door. A few seconds later his Mountie pal strode from the office. "Why, Rory. Good chap. All well?" asked Mick. Rory drooped his head, and drooped his tail, too. "What? Something wrong?” said Mick surprised.

"Hullo, what's this? A message," he added, as Rory deliberately turned so that Mick looked at his collar. Mick took the message and unfolded it. "Him," he mused. "Seems the blind man likes you, Rory. He wants you again this afternoon." Mick stroked his chin. He had meant to go back to the Mountie Post, with Rory, but he felt he couldn't let down a blind man. For a moment, he weighed it up before deciding. "O K. We'll fix it, Rory. Now, let's go and get a bit to eat," he said. It was then that Mick realised he didn't know Kershaw's address, although of course, Rory knew it. Rut how could he tell Rory to go back to the blind man? It was a question Mick soon answered. After they had dinner, he wrote a note and wound it round Rory's collar. "Go back," he said, taking Rory to where they had parted that morning. Rory hesitated, but he knew what was meant. The trouble was, how to warn Mick that the man wasn't really a friend? Rory stood still, and looked at Mick. He barked, and then he sat up, as if to say "Please! Must I?" Mick smiled and fondled his head. "Why, Rory, old pal," he said, reproachfully. Don't tell me you won't help a poor blind man? Want to come with me, eh? Have a romp in the Park?" Rory's ears went up and he gave an excited yelp. The park! He knew that word well. But that sign of joy was misunderstood, for Mick supposed that Rory preferred to play ball in the park rather than lead the blind man. Duty came first, however, and Mick shook his head sadly. "Trot on, Rory. Good dog. Go back!" He turned away, but Rory stood still, tail down. Three yards further on, Mick hesitated and then pointed sternly in the direction Rory had to take. It was an order, and Rory with a sigh, turned and trotted on. Rory did not look back again. He was worried, but he had been given a real order, so he obeyed. Dutifully, he reached the house, stood against the door and barked. A fat man opened it and glared. "Well, and what do you want?" he snapped. There came a voice from somewhere behind him. "If that's a dog, it's for me!"
The fat man walked back into the house and Rory followed. The door of the phoney blind man's room was open and Rory went inside. Kershaw sat in an armchair wearing dark glasses, quite still, but he turned as Rory entered, thanked the fat man who then left. Rory went to Kershaw and made the message on his collar obvious. "I see. You've got to be back at four o'clock," said the "blind" man when he had read it. "Suits me. I shall just make it. We start in ten minutes' time, Rory, you clever dog." And he gave his short jeering laugh. Orders are orders, however, and Rory allowed a heavy chain to be attached to his collar before they left the house together. Kershaw used his stick to tap the pavement. Rory went as directed, and presently they turned into the main street, crossed the road when Rory knew it was clear, and then halted outside a large building.

Taking off his dark glasses, the "blind man" for whom Rory was acting as guide dog began to read a newspaper. Rory little realised that the man had shown himself to be an Impostor.

"In you go," said Kershaw. Rory led him into the building. It was a bank. One other man was coming out, but otherwise they were alone, and the man with the dark glasses tapped his way to the counter with Rory leading. "Isn't that the Mountie's dog?" asked the teller behind the counter. "Yes. He lent him to me for the afternoon. I'm blind, you know. Ah, what a wonderful friend, a clever dog." Another teller came along and put an enormous wad of dollars on the counter.

"If that feller could see," he grinned to the teller serving Kershaw, "it would do him a treat to get an eyeful of all this cash." The two men little realised that the blind man was a fake, and at that instant was greedily eyeing the notes. The chain jingled as Kershaw tied Rory to the counter. Then the fake blind man groped along beyond the reach of the chain. "This way," guided the teller, and then shrugged as he saw it had no effect on Kershaw. "O K. Stay there." It was near where the large wad of notes was stacked that Kershaw groped. "I want to cash a cheque," he said. In the most natural way he groped for a pen on the counter. The good natured teller obligingly lifted the grille to help him. It was as the grille went up that Kershaw's manner changed. His right hand whipped into his coat pocket and pulled out a gun! He knocked his dark glasses off with his other hand! "O K. This is a stick up. So get your hands up, or else," he rapped to the astounded teller. He grabbed the pile of notes, and stuffed them into a bag that was slung inside his coat. "He's not blind!" choked the other teller, who also raised his arms. Rory sprang as he saw the gun. He knew now that Kershaw was a bad man, knew by the teller's alarmed yell, knew by the evil look of the man with the gun. But Rory's spring came to nothing. Being fixed by the chain, he swung over and landed on the floor with a crash. While the tellers stood with hands up, the gunman backed to the door. A yard from it, he paused, hurled his hat away and jammed on a fur cap. Inside the fur cap, was fitted a white wig. Swiftly he jammed a white moustache above his lip, and unfurled a cape slung over his back, then wrapped it round him. He was in a completely fresh disguise. Suddenly he stepped out of the bank, and slammed the door! Tethered at the rail outside was a roan mare. To unhitch the horse and spring into the saddle was the work of a moment. So that before anyone in the street had grasped that anything unusual had happened, the bank robber was in the saddle and away! Rory's barking filled the air. The tellers sprang to the door but even as they rushed out, Mick the Mountie came charging down the street, having heard Rory. "What's wrong with Rory?" he yelled, grabbing a white-faced teller. The man gave him a bitter, savage look. "Plenty," he snapped. "He's just led a gunman, pretending to be blind, right into the bank, and the thief has got away with two thousand dollars."
Mick charged into the bank where the manager, who had rushed in from his office, was shouting in fury. "So you let a gunman fool you he was blind!" he howled in rage. "Well, he'd got a dog leading him," protested a teller. "So what?" “It was the Mountie's dog! How could we guess it was aiding a crook?" Meanwhile, heedless of the uproar, Mick unchained Rory, who strained to get at the door. But the manager barred his way. "Not so fast. You stay here!" ordered the manager. "We've got to get after that crook," snapped Mick. "First you'll have to answer a few questions," retorted the manager. "It was that stupid dog of yours led the man in here. And what I want to know, and what your officer will want to know, is how you came to be mixed up with that bank robber. It doesn't look so good for you, Mountie!" Mick, white-faced, looked down at Rory, who was straining desperately at the lead. "Hold, Rory!" said Mick quietly.
"We're in a jam, pal." Mick would have to explain how it had happened that he had lent his well-known dog to a gunman! There was no denying that Rory had helped the bank robber. Accompanied by a Mountie's dog, the man had been safe from suspicion. "Listen," said Mick fiercely. "Any questions I have to answer can be answered later. We're going to get that man. Now!" Rory was straining so hard that Mick let him go, and to his surprise, Rory went not to the doors, but to a corner behind them where the gunman had flung his hat. With a snarl of triumph Rory took it and then shook it. But that done, he rushed it to Mick. He knew Mick liked to have things like it soon after a crime. "A clue!" said Mick, seizing it. "The gunman's hat." "Idiot!" scoffed the manager, snatching it. "Look inside. No name! No maker's name even. There's a score of hats just like this in town." Mick took it back. "Wrong! There's only one like it. It may mean nothing to you without some kind of writing, but this hat has got a smell. And with this to guide him, I bet Rory can hunt this rascal down, wherever he is." Mick rushed to the door, and released Rory from the chain. "Find him, pal," whooped Mick. Instantly Rory raced off down the street in the direction the bank robber had taken. The Mountie dog was determined to track down the man who had so cunningly brought trouble to him and his master!
The daring disguise.
Mick was feeling down in the dumps. For barely half an hour after setting out on the track of the bank robber, Rory had returned to the township.

It seemed that Mick's faithful dog pal had lost the trail. There was a hue and cry throughout the territory for a white-haired man wearing a black fur cap and a cape. But everyone knew it was only a disguise which the bank robber had probably shed before he'd travelled far. At the Post, where he had returned, Mick was on the carpet before the Inspector. Inspector Bennet paced up and down, muttering in annoyance. "A tine mess! I thought you had more sense, Corporal. Fancy being fooled in by a phoney blind man. Huh!" Mick gritted his teeth. Easy to say that now. "And as for Rory." said Inspector Bennet bitterly." he's supposed to scent a Bad Man fifty yards away." "It was my fault," said Mick loyally. "Rory did try to warn me. I can see it now. He didn't want to go with the man. I thought that was because he wanted his regular game in the park. But it wasn't that. No, Poor Rory knew the man was a wrong un, but couldn't tell me."
"A heck of a lot of good his knowing if he can't tell. Oh. I'll admit Rory's done some fine things." said Inspector Bennet, "but what'll they say at Head-quarters? And what'll the newspapers say? We'll be a laughing stock, Corporal!" Anyway, we've got that clue," pointed out Mick. "Clue! Has it helped Rory find the man? Where is Rory, by the way?" he ended, looking around. "Still trying to pick up the bank robber's trail," said Mick grimly. "Time he was back to eat."
"He won't eat until he gets his man." Mick had hardly said that when a boy came in, grinning. “Inspector Bennet?" he asked. "Yes, what is up, son?" asked the Inspector, wheeling. "Mister Solomons of the Diamond Saloon sent me along. Wants you to call off your dog. He says it'll rob the till, or call in some crooks to do it." The Inspector gritted his teeth. "Listen, son. If you value your skin, don't bring me gags like that l And I'll have a word with Mister Solomons about it myself." "Yeah, but take it easy, Inspector," said the grinning boy, backing out of the office. "All joking aside, that dog's hanging about the kitchen and driving the cook there barmy. Seems the dog's hungry."
Mick jumped up. "On the level? Rory is there?" “Certainly is. I reckon he'll pay for food when he gets his slice of the two thousand bucks from the bank robber." The boy darted out, and Mick unclenched his hands and gave a short laugh. "I'll go and get him," he said. Then he drew up. "Could it be that the bank robber's there?" "What, in this town? That's likely!" scoffed Inspector Bennet. Mick did not argue. He hurried out, and swung astride his horse, Flash. Then he cantered off to the town. There was a grinning crowd outside the Diamond Saloon. Mick dismounted and pushed his way through.

"This is a stick-up. So get your hands up, or else," the phoney blind man rapped to the astonished bank-tellers. Frantically Rory strained to tackle the bank-robber, but the chain attached to the counter held him back!
"Here's the Mountie!" came a shout. "It's another hold-up, boys!" Mick entered the saloon and met Mister Solomons, the owner. "Huh! Come for your dog, eh? Well, he's locked in my room," snapped Solomons. "He got in through the kitchen window, and only the cook's knife drove him out. I tell you, if that dog steals any food."
"He won't," said Mick curtly. "Where's the kitchen?"
"The dog's in my office. Get him! Never mind the kitchen." "I'll see the kitchen," inserted Mick. "Come on! This is a police visit. We’re hunting a bank robber. The kitchen and fast." Solomons scowled, but led the way.

"You're as dumb as the dog if you think that bank robber could hide here," he jeered. He led the way to the kitchen where the cook, a portly man in white, stood before a stove.
"It's the Mountie, come about his dog," announced Solomons. "Well, tell him to take his dog away. He's stolen a chunk of steak," snorted the cook. I warn you, Mountie, he'll have my knife chucked at him if he shows up again." Mick did not answer. He looked about him in the kitchen. There were cupboards, and despite Solomon's protests, he looked in them all. "You'll get a bad report to the Inspector for this," said Solomons in fury. "How could that bank robber come and hide here? It's against reason he should even try too." Mick looked over the floor of the kitchen, but did not answer. He knew Rory, his dog wouldn't leave duty to hunt steaks. He must have tracked the bank robber down to somewhere around the saloon. "If you set Rory free, I'll whistle him," said Mick. "Set the dog free," shouted the cook, waving a carving knife, and he'll have a taste of this."
"That's enough of that," rapped Mick, taking out his six-shooter from the holster. "Now, set him free, or." Solomons, muttering, went off to his office, and Mick whistled. At the third whistle, Rory bounded into the kitchen. He rushed at Mick with wild joy, and then turned, snarling, to the cook. "All right, pal. He won't use it," said Mick, calming Rory. But there's a cellar here, and we're going to search it." Back came Solomons, and the cook told him what Mick had said. "Oh, no, you don't search my cellar," declared Solomons in growing fury. "I tell you it's locked, and no one could have got in there. No one. Have you seen anyone hanging around?" he asked the red-faced, portly cook. "Not a soul. And I've been working here for a week. This is my kitchen and no one's allowed in it, not even the smartest dog in Canada." Mick wheeled on him.
"Just a minute. Let me see that knife," he ordered sharply. "And, Rory, you sit down." Rory sat, and the cook, with a mocking look at Solomons and a grimace at Mick, handed over the knife. That was all Mick wanted, to make sure the cook didn't use it. Mick, holding the knife, did not look at Rory, but he spoke to him.
"Seek him, Rory!" he snapped. Rory leapt at the cook. He grabbed the man's apron and ripped it. Then, while the man fell back, seized his shirt and ripped it wide open. A large cushion was revealed, which Rory's snapping jaws split. Feathers flew in all directions! "Hey!" said Solomons in blank astonishment.
The cook wasn't fat at all, hut thin, and padded with cushions!
"All right, the game's up," Mick snapped to the cook. "I've got you covered, and Rory's watching you, too. You were smart, but not smart enough to beat him." The cook put his hands up as Mick's six-shooter covered him, but his eyes were on Rory, who was showing him sharp teeth. Solomons mopped his white face and stared in bewilderment. "I don't get it," he panted. "You don't mean that my cook is the gunman, the fake blind man?" Mick chuckled. He could afford to now. "Why, surely," he said.
"He's only been with you a week? I suppose he had to-day off until now?"
"Yeah, that's right. He came back to work about an hour ago." Mick explained.
"I suspected him when I saw how Rory scared him. And when Rory snarled at him I realised he must be the bank robber in yet another disguise. First he posed as a blind man to rob the bank, then as a white-haired trapper, and doubled back here to carry on being your cook."
The cook suddenly lowered his arms and swung a chair in front of Rory, dodging sideways. Mick, reluctant to shoot unless necessary, held his fire. Quick as a flash, the cook seized a red-hot iron from the stove and threw it at Rory. But Rory, quick as light, dodged, jumped at the bank robber and bowled him over on to his back. "Guard him, Rory," said Mick. Rory placed one foot on the fallen man's chest and growled into his face. Mick walked across, handcuffed the man, and then turned to Rory again.
"Seek, Rory," he ordered. Rory hunted around. He knew what he had to seek. He had done the job before. When he had rounded up a criminal, he next had to round up what he had stolen. This would be something with a mixed smell, the smell of this man and of the bank. It took him three minutes. In an old coat, hanging on the door, was the money. He tugged down the coat by breaking its collar loop, and then ripped the lining, to reveal wads of dollar notes. "Well," said Solomons, his jaw dropping.
"That's certainly some dog, Mountie. I lost my watch the other day. Reckon he could find it?"
"If you make an official report, yes," said Mick with a grin. "Rory's a police dog. Duty only. And the next time a blind man wants his help, I'll make sure the man isn't a fake. Now we'll be getting this crook along to the Post, and a nice cell." Mick turned to his clever dog pal. "I suppose you're just about ready for your dinner?" he chuckled. "Well, after this day's work, you certainly deserve it." Rory barked happily, and nudged the bank robber towards the doorway. The Mountie dog had got his man!

Stormy Tate of the Wheezy Anna.
By R G Thomas.
Stealing Stormy's Steamer Was Just Asking For Trouble. And It Came!

His ship stolen!
There's something queer about this island, Tiny. We thought it was uninhabited, but I'm beginning to have my doubts." Stormy Tate, skipper of the Wheezy Anna, one of the best-known, and oldest, trading steamers in the South Seas, stood looking across a small clearing. He was clad in singlet and sailcloth trousers, with a battered naval cap perched jauntily over one eye. Tiny White, the Wheezy Anna's fat and good-humoured cook, looked at Stormy in surprise. "What makes you think someone lives here, Stormy?" he demanded. Stormy pointed to a small heap of blackened stones which formed a crude fireplace. Then he pointed to a hollow beneath a bush which held a large number of empty tins. Their paper wrappers looked almost brand-new. "If you ask me," Stormy said, "some of those tins were opened no later than this morning." Tiny took a quick look about him. "Perhaps Bill King camped here during the?" he suggested. Stormy shook his head.
"Hill King only landed yesterday morning," he stated. "From the look of those blackened stones, this place has been used as a camp for several days, and by more than one man, judging by the great number of opened tins.

The two pals had good reason to be surprised. Luka Island had the reputation of being uninhabited. The Wheezy Anna had only called there in order to land a passenger named Bill King. He had told Stormy he wanted to spend two or three days on the island in order to discover whether the soil would be suitable for coconut plantations. He had landed the day before, and on the following morning Stormy and Tiny had set out to explore the island themselves, leaving Jock McKay, the Scottish engineer, in charge of the Wheezy Anna. They had rowed half-way round the island in the ship's boat before landing. Stormy looked at the heap of empty tins, and then spun upon his heels. "We'd better get back to the Wheezy Anna," he began.
"I." Crack! Crack! The sound of two distant but unmistakable revolver shots caused Stormy to break off.
"I don't like the sound of those shots," he rapped. "They came from somewhere near the Wheezy Anna."
"Which way do we go?" Tiny demanded. "Cut straight across the island, or get back to the boat?"
"Back to the boat," Stormy ordered, starting to run. "It might take us hours to cross the island."

He led the way back to where they had left the ship's boat. They listened intently for sounds of further firing, but there were none. As they raced along they disturbed a colony of monkeys, which swung among the trees and chattered in anger. At last they reached the boat. Each took an oar, and began to row furiously. The same questions troubled them. What had happened aboard the Wheezy Anna? Who had fired the shots? And had the firing any-thing to do with the unknown men who had been living on the island? Soon a familiar headland came in sight. The Wheezy Anna had been anchored in the bay beyond it.
Suddenly Tiny turned his head. He gave a gasp of amazement and ceased to row!
"Look!" Tiny gasped. Stormy looked, and hardly believed his eyes. Far beyond the headland he saw a long line of black smoke, smoke from the Wheezy Anna's funnel! So the tramp-steamer had put to sea, and at full steam, too! Stormy's eyes glinted.
"I understand those shots now," he gritted. "The men who've been living on the island must have boarded the Wheezy Anna and captured her." An expression of alarm crossed Tiny's face.
"Jock wouldn't give in without a fight," he gasped. "Do you think that." He found himself unable to put the question into words. He feared that Jock McKay might have been killed.
"The crew wouldn't give in without a fight, either," Stormy said. "All we can do for the moment is to pull into the bay, but somehow I mean to get even with those thugs aboard the Wheezy Anna." They went round the headland, and rowed across the bay, but they only saw a deserted beach ahead of them. By the time they had beached the boat the Wheezy Anna was on the horizon. "Listen," Stormy suddenly burst out. He was sure he'd heard a shout from among the trees. Next moment he was running into the jungle, with Tiny striving to keep up with him. They came to a clearing, to see an amazing and cheering sight! Jock McKay and the native members of the Wheezy Anna's crew were lying trussed like chickens. Around Jock's forehead was a blood-stained bandage. Jock explained as Stormy cut him free.
"I was down in the engine room," he said, "when I suddenly heard running footsteps on deck. I came up to see what was happening and I found myself facing Bill King and three other white men. All of them were armed and I was told to put up my hands. King fired when I jumped at him and one of his bullets grazed my forehead." He shrugged. "The shot knocked me out," he went on. "And when I came to I was tied up here." The native crew had been helpless to resist the attackers, and had been brought along with Jock.
"For once in my life," Stormy said bitterly, "I've been played for a sucker. Bill King knew there were three men already on Luka Island. He booked a passage with me, all the time planning to take possession of the Wheezy Anna once I'd gone ashore here."
"But what's behind it all?" Tiny wanted to know. Stormy looked at Jock. "Did you learn anything?" he demanded. "Did Bill King say anything when he dumped you in this clearing?" Jock shrugged. "One of the men started to say something about Fowler Island," he said, "but Bill King quickly shut him up." "Fowler Island!" Tiny echoed in stark surprise. "Surely Bill King can't be headed there? It's death for white men to land on that island." He looked towards the horizon. All that could be seen there now was a tiny smudge of black smoke. "Not that the outlook for us isn't black," he shrugged. "We may be marooned here for years. And I doubt if we'll ever set eyes on the Wheezy Anna again!"
Natives on the war-path.
Quickly Stormy turned upon him. "Nonsense, Tiny," he rapped. "To start with, were not marooned here. The ship's lifeboat is still in our possession. We'll all be back on board the Wheezy Anna before the week is out, I promise you." His two pals stared at him in astonishment. How could he possibly speak so confidently?" King's business at Fowler Island will keep him there for a few days, I should think," Stormy announced. "Time enough for us to catch up with him." Tiny and Jock began to feel in better spirits.
"There's another thing, too," Stormy went on. "The Wheezy Anna is a well-known ship, and if King takes her into any port lie's bound to be questioned. It's a million to one that he's planning to use her to carry some sort of cargo, and that while he's off Fowler Island he'll attempt to disguise her in some way."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Tiny whooped. "Let's get going."
"Right," chuckled Stormy. "First stop, Fowler Island!" Within minutes they were all aboard the lifeboat. The mast was placed in position and the sail taken out of its locker. When it was hoisted in the strong wind, the boat began to surge through the clear, green water. Stormy knew he would have no difficulty about food or water, as the boat was well provisioned. There was also a reliable compass on board. Stormy's only fear was that they might either run into a violent storm or else a dead calm. But for two days and nights the weather remained good, and the lifeboat progressed steadily on its course.

On the third day Stormy made sure of his compass bearing and also took a reading of the sun.
"If my calculations are correct," he announced, "we should reach Fowler Island somewhere about midnight. That'll suit me fine. With luck we'll all be on the island before dawn, and King and Company won't know a thing about it." The sun went down but there was no sign of the island. Nevertheless, Stormy kept confidently to the course he had worked out. It was nearly midnight when a floating tree branch brushed against the boat, a branch which still carried a few green leaves.
"We must be off the island now," observed Stormy. Down came the mast and then the crew began using the oars in muffled row-locks. Tiny was well up in the bows and suddenly he turned. "Easy on the oars," he whispered. "Land ahead." The boat drifted up to a beach, where heavy bushes overhung the water. Underneath these they hid the boat. When dawn came, Stormy and his crew were crouched amongst the trees. As soon as it was light enough, Stormy climbed the nearest headland. He was able only to see half the island, and of the Wheezy Anna there was no sign. But there were many small bays on Fowler Island where she could have dropped anchor.
"We'll have to start walking round the edge of the island," Stormy said, on his return, to the crew. "And try not to show yourselves. I don't want any trouble with the islanders." They set out in single tile, with Stormy leading the way. The hours went by but still they failed to sight the ship. Neither did they see any sign of the island's inhabitants. Noon came and went and still they continued their search. As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, Stormy knew that they must have walked round at least three-quarters of the island's edge. He began to feel anxious. Perhaps the reference to Fowler Island which Jock had overheard had had no particular meaning. Perhaps the Wheezy Anna had not come to the island at all. It was an hour to darkness when Stormy led the way up a lung dupe. He reached the top, and fell flat.
He had found the Wheezy Anna!
Tiny and the others came crawling up to him, to see the Wheezy Anna riding at anchor in the small bay.
“Gosh!" Tiny gasped. "Look at the beach!" The beach was one mass of natives.

Stormy and his pals stared in amazement. For scores of canoes were taking native warriors to the Wheezy Anna. What could it mean?

There were women and children there, but every warrior was armed to the teeth. Everyone there seemed to be greatly excited, whooping and waving their arms. "I dinna understand it," Jock frowned, shaking his head.
"That's Bill King on the Wheezy Anna's deck. He doesn't appear to expect trouble from the natives." Stormy made out a figure leaning over the rails of the Wheezy Anna's deck. Soon it was joined by three other figures. "It's got me beat, too," Stormy confessed. At that moment the natives on the beach began to get even more excited, and all the warriors crowded into a fleet of canoes. Out into the bay they shot, beading for the Wheezy Anna.
"They're going to attack," Tiny gasped. "Bill King and the others won't stand a chance." Stormy shook his head. "You've got it wrong, Tiny," he said. "They're not attacking, or Bill King wouldn't be taking things so easy."

Bill King and his three companions were still leaning over the ship's rails, calmly watching the oncoming boatloads of native warriors. The canoes massed about the ship and the armed warriors began scrambling aboard. Hundreds of them filled the little tramp-steamer's deck, as the almost empty canoes were paddled back to land. "What a cargo. The Wheezy Anna's never seen the like before," gulped Jock McKay. "I can't make head nor tail of what's happening." Stormy said slowly.
"How is it that those natives are so friendly towards King, and yet they're armed to the teeth?" Native women and children still lined the beach. It was evident that they intended to stay there until the ship sailed. But what was the Wheezy Anna's destination? Suddenly a wild chanting came from the crowded deck of the ship. It grew louder, and Stormy strained his ears to listen. He gasped in anger. "At last I see the reason for all this." He turned to Tiny and Jock. "They're chanting death to the Carru tribe, who live on Carru Island. The Carrus have always been the enemies of the Fowler Islanders!"
"I get it," Tiny burst out. "The Fowler Islanders intend to invade Carru Island, and they're using our ship as transport." Jock's jaw set grimly. "It'll be a massacre. When the Wheezy Anna drops anchor off Carru Island all those howling savages will be hidden under hatches. The Carru Island folk won't realise that anything is wrong. The Fowler Islanders will probably land under cover of darkness and kill the Carru Islanders while they're asleep." Stormy smacked a fist into the palm of his other hand.
"Not if I can help it," he vowed. "Somehow I'm stopping the Wheezy Anna from leaving here." Grim determination gleamed in his eyes. "I don't know what Bill King expected to get out of this, but, whatever it is, his scheme must not succeed."

Into action, with coconuts.

A solitary canoe suddenly put out from the beach. It came alongside the Wheezy Anna, and Bill King and one of his white companions climbed into it. They were rowed to the beach, where they clambered out and strode confidently into the trees. Stormy crawled back down the slope until it was safe for him to get to his feet. "Now's our chance," he announced. "Bill King's on the island, and we've got to capture him. That will be the start of my plan to stop the Wheezy Anna from sailing to Carru Island! Stormy and his two pals, followed by the native crew, hurried into the jungle.
I caught a glimpse of the village from the top of the slope," Stormy said to Tiny. "Bill King and his pal are making for it, and so are we." He began to run, for the sun was already upon the horizon. Within a few minutes it would vanish, and tropical darkness would cover the island. It was in the very last second of daylight that Stormy and his crew came in sight of the village. One small fire was burning in the centre and between them and the fire four figures were standing. They were Bill King and his companion, and two high-ranking Fowler Islanders. Darkness closed in.
"We'll go along the back of the village," Stormy whispered. "I want to overhear their conversation if possible, and then capture all four without causing any alarm." It wasn't an easy matter creeping along at the back of the village. Stout hanging vines hampered their passage and twice Stormy nearly stumbled into gullies. They came to a hut almost opposite the four men. Stormy went forward alone. The darkness at the side of the hut hid him from view. He heard the voice of Bill King.
"Well, Chief," said the cunning schemer," all your men are aboard my ship. I've a full head of steam and can sail at once. To-morrow afternoon we'll be anchored off Carru Island and after dark you'll be able to lead your warriors to the attack." Angrily Stormy clenched his fists. "Bill King's going to rue the day he stole the Wheezy Anna." he gritted. Then Bill King was speaking again. "But there is a bargain to be kept between us, Chief," he said oilily. "I want my payment here and now."
"You shall be paid," a guttural voice answered him. One of the natives turned and he made his way into the hut, alongside which Stormy was standing. He came out carrying a small leather bag. As he did so, the other native stooped to spread out a square of cloth on the ground. The first native, who was the Chief, pulled open the mouth of the leather bag. "Your payment," he announced. Then he carefully poured the contents of the leather bag on to the cloth. The light from the nearby fire reflected on the objects which streamed from the bag. Glittering, they showed themselves to be a fortune in pearls! Greed lit up Bill King's eyes. As he stopped, to run his fingers through the precious pearls, Stormy Tate slid back into the darkness. Taking his knife from its sheath, Stormy reached high to cut down a thick, hanging vine. Then he began collecting fallen coconuts from beneath a palm tree. His next move was to seek out Tiny, and give him whispered instructions.

Stormy moved forward again just as Bill King took the leather bag from the Chief. Bending down, the treacherous white man gathered up a handful of the pearls and poured them back into the bag. As he did so a shrill chattering came from the trees. It seemed as though it came from a monkey, but the sounds were really being made by Stormy! And then Stormy deliberately bowled one of the fallen coconuts. His aim was perfect. The coconut struck the heap of pearls, sending many of them rolling across the ground. A furious curse escaped Bill King. Desperately he tried to prevent any pearls disappearing into the darkness beyond the fire. At the same time the Chief turned with a shout, and sent a spear winging into the darkness between the huts. The spear passed within yards of Stormy, who now showed himself and hurled another coconut. Once more his aim was perfect. The coconut struck Bill King's hand, just as he'd taken up another handful of the pearls. Every one of them spun into the darkness. He came bounding to his feet in furious anger as Stormy slipped back into the shadows. He fired his gun into the trees. That was when Stormy and Tiny took a tremendous risk. Chancing being hit by stray bullets, they went into action.
Bill King, his two white companions, and the two natives were in a bunch. Stormy took a tight grip on the end of the cut vine. Tiny gripped the other end, fifteen yards away, and the two of them raced out into the clearing! Bill King and his amazed accomplices saw the vine stretched out between Stormy and Tiny, but they failed to dodge it. The "trip-wire" caught the five men just above their ankles, and pulled them flat on their faces Then Jock McKay and Stormy's native crew went to work.
Quickly they knocked out King and Company and tied them up. But Stormy was anxious. Had Bill King raised the alarm by firing his gun. Would the warriors aboard the Wheezy Anna come flocking back before he was ready to deal with them?
"We've got to work quickly," he rapped. "It's mighty lucky that I know the Carru Islanders so well Now here's what you have to do." Quickly he gave Tiny and the others instructions. Afterwards he made them repeat strange words after him. "And when you start to shout," Stormy said finally.
"Shout as though you're on the warpath." Stormy ran forward, the others after him. They kicked at the fire in order to scatter it and then each picked up a burning brand. As quickly as they possibly could they set fire to every hut in the Village "Now," Stormy commanded. "Shout." Next moment his two pals and the crew were yelling their loudest. And it was the war-song of Carru Island that they shouted, the war-song of victory, which Stormy had just taught them!
As soon as the shouting started, Stormy ran for a tall tree and clambered high into its branches. Aboard the Wheezy Anna the sound of firing had been heard. The natives crowded on the deck had looked towards the island but hadn't moved. Suddenly a shout of alarm escaped one of them.
He pointed to a red glow above the trees. As he did so the sound of wild chanting came over the water. Instantly." That is the victory chant of the Carru Islanders!" yelled one warrior. "They have landed, and are burning our village."
"Death to our enemies of Carru Island." They didn't wait for canoes to take them ashore. They fought to get to the ship's rails, then in a solid mass they leapt into the waters of the bay. Back on the island Stormy scrambled down from his tree-top perch. "It's worked! They're returning!" he cried in triumph.
"Get cracking with the prisoners." They left the village by a roundabout way, for they knew the natives would use the most direct route. Reaching the beach, they found it absolutely deserted. Quickly Stormy and Company commandeered a couple of canoes, flung their captives into them, and paddled for the Wheezy Anna. Stormy was the first to clamber aboard and, for a moment, the two white men who had been left behind mistook him for Bill King. "What's gone wrong, Bill?" one of them demanded.
“Have the Carru Islanders really landed and?" A yell of alarm cut him short. "Look out!" cried the other man. "It's not Bill King, it's Stormy Tate." But already Stormy was launching himself at them, fists swinging, and by the time Tiny and Jock scrambled on board, he had Knocked Out the two schemers. When the Fowler Islanders, realising they'd been tricked, came racing back to the beach, the Wheezy Anna was already steaming out of the bay. They could only shout and wave weapons in anger. As the island faded into the darkness behind them, Tiny looked at Stormy.
"You're a marvel, Skipper," he said. "You've pulled us out of a nasty situation, and scuppered those schemers." Stormy's weather-beaten face broke into a broad grin.
"The two Chiefs, and King and his gang will go to prison for a mighty long time for this work," he laughed. "And I don't think there'll ever be another attempt to massacre the folk on Carru Island! The Fowler Islanders have learnt their lesson!" Tiny chuckled.
"And what a lesson you taught em, Stormy. They won't want to tangle with you again!"

Sandy Deans Flying Surprise Packet.

When a model making competition was announced at tollgate school, one of the first boys to enter it was Sandy Dean. For the prize to be awarded to the winning competitor was a magnificent sports bicycle: and that was just what sandy needed. His old bike having almost fallen to pieces, but Bossy Bates, the fourth-form bully, was equally determined to win the competition.

On the day before the contest, Sandy Dean and his pals, Jack Hardy and Owl Watson, were busy in their study.

The Models coming along nicely now, chaps. What we’ve to guard against is Bossy Bates getting at it and smashing it.

Quiet Sandy, I reckon there’s someone listening outside the door.

By the time Owl had whipped open the door the eavesdropper had sped off.

It was that little sneak Gus Trevor. Bossy must have sent him to spy on us.

That night, when the pals went to the dormitory, sandy took a large box with him.

Gee, won't bossy be curious to know what I've got in here!

We'll have to make sure of attracting his attention before we get into bed.

He’ll fall for our scheme all right.

Bossy and Company saw Sandy and his Pal’s enter, and were at once intrigued.

Look. Sandy Dean must have his model in that box. I wonder why he’s brought it with him,

He’s up to some tricky game. Let’s keep an eye on him.

A few minutes later, Bossy and Company’s curiosity was further aroused.

Say Bossy, Sandy Dean and his pals have only partly undressed!
They are going somewhere after lights out!

Shush! Not a word. When they leave, we’ll follow them.

It was when everyone else appear to be asleep that Sandy and company stole out of the dormitory.
Taking the big box with them.
All three pals well knew that bossy and his cronies would shadow them.

Sure enough, Bossy and Company silently sneaked after the pals and climbed out of a window which sandy had left open.

There they go! They’re snooping into the old tower.

I reckon they mean to give Sandy Dean’s model a secret trial.
We’ll have a dekko. And if it comes anywhere near us we’ll kick it for six!

If you can smash Dean’s model, bossy, you’ll stand a better chance of winning the competition yourself.

Cautiously, Bossy and Co crept into the tower.

What’s happened to them?
They don’t seem to be here.

Unseen by Bossy and Co, Sandy and his pals were well up the stairs, taking from the box a lot of paper bats with outstretched wings.

Jeepers, they’re almost lifelike!
Now to give those snooping spies below the shock of their lives!

The next moment, Gus Trevor uttered a gasp of Horror.

What’s up, Gus?

Yow! A blinkin bat flew right into my face!

A Bat? Ugh! I hate em!

Suddenly, as Sandy and his pals emptied the box of bats, the air below became full of them

Help! There are thousands of the Brutes!

They might be man-eaters! Lest Scram!

The terrified bullies ran from the tower.
Straight into further trouble.

Out of my way! There are hundreds of bats after me!

Ohm Lord! It’s a master, Mister Tallow!

Bossy and Company daren’t admit to mister Tallow the real reason whey they were out of doors at dead of night.
While they were making up some excuse about being on a ghost-hunt, Sandy and his pals were slipping back to the dormitory in safety.

Sandy an company were in bed and apparently fast asleep by the time mister Tallow arrived with the three bullies.

And for this disgraceful escapade, Bates, you and your two dupes will write out 100 times.
“I do not believe in ghosts.”

Y, Yes Sir.

When Mister Tallow had gone, Bossy had a last word with spider.

Sandy Dean had something to do with the swarm of bats.
But I’ll get even with him. I’ll find a way of collaring his model before the competition.
I’ll smash it to smithereens!

Sandy, however, knew very well what was in Bossy’s mind. So after lessons the next day, the three chums hurried to their study.

We’ll take this plane along to toll hill. It’s just the place for a flight.
Bossy is certain to follow us again, so we’ll give him the chance he’s been waiting for.

He won’t dream that he’s being fooled again. Ha-ha-ha!

Eager for revenge on Sandy, Bossy and company’ kept a close

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