"You would, if you're fool enough to go there!" Freddy Farmer cried. "But not me, because I'm heading back to the base just as soon as I've had me a little rest!" "Aw, don't be a sissy!" Dawson chided. "Come on. It will do you good. Really break in those new shoes of yours. I was kidding about it being three miles. It can't be more than a mile. We'll get a swell view of Dago and Coronado, Freddy. Come on; be a good guy!" When there was no comment from his flying mate and dearest pal, Dawson turned his head and opened his mouth to speak again. But no words came from between his lips, and that was because of the scowling, puzzled look on Freddy's face. He was sitting up straight, holding a sock in each hand, and staring intently at the crown of a low hill a short distance in back of where they sat. "What are you looking at?" Dawson demanded, and twisted all the way around. "That little cluster of shacks up there," Freddy replied. "I just saw a couple of chaps sneaking along by them. They looked a bit strange to me. I think one of them was in uniform." "So what?" Dave grunted as he eyed the group of weather-beaten shacks. "That's where the pickers live, I guess. For the orange groves, I mean. They're migratory pickers. They don't stay in one place all year round. Only for the picking season. Then they move, families and all, to some other section where a fruit crop has come in. That must be some life, I don't think. I wouldn't ... I see them, now, pal. And one is in uniform. And--hey! They're looking around as though they wanted to make sure nobody was watching them. Crouch down, Freddy. They won't be able to see us for those bushes there. I wonder what their act is all about anyway?" "Well, it certainly looks suspicious from here," Freddy Farmer grunted as he hugged the ground closer with Dawson. "And ... I say, Dave, you see that?" "See what?" Dawson demanded. "The one in civilian clothes, if you could call them that!" the English-born air ace said breathlessly. "His right hand! He's got a gun in it. Watch, and you'll see the sun on it as he turns." Dawson didn't make any reply. He hugged the ground and peered past a clump of bushes at the two figures standing on the crown of the low hill no more than a couple of hundred yards away. One was very definitely garbed in uniform, but because of the position of the sinking sun, and the rays of light it cast off, it was impossible to tell what kind of a uniform at the distance. Then the other, the one obviously garbed in civilian clothes, turned slightly and the sunlight danced off a gun he held in his right hand. Dave gasped audibly, but it was not caused by sight of the sun on the gun. Rather, it was because of the figure's movements with the gun. "Cat's sake, Freddy!" he grunted. "The guy is waving that soldier inside that shack with his gun. See? There they go in, both of them. What the heck do you suppose, pal?"