It was fifty-seven and one half miles from the ranch at Aguas Grandes to Torreas, where a regiment of Mexican government or “federal” infantry, with a company of artillery, were encamped; and Hike made that distance, in the _Hustle_, in twenty-four and three quarters minutes, of which about seven minutes were spent in looking for the exact location of Torreas. So, less than half an hour after he had left the lonely ranch, he was astounding the soldiers by circling over their camp, and dropping in front of the commanding officer’s headquarters. Being a Mexican, the commander was excitable. He rushed out from his tent, and grasped Hike’s hand, with immense respect and every show of honor, before Hike could say a word. Looking as dignified as possible, Hike delivered a note from Jack Adeler, asking for a machine-gun and a few soldiers. The commandant scratched his beard a little, looked dubious, then glanced again at the marvelous complicated aeroplane, with Hike, straight and silent and dignified beside it. He nodded his head vigorously, and said, “_Madre de todos, si_—yesss, I do it!” He sent two orderlies hurrying in different directions, while he poured on Hike a flood of questions in half English, half Spanish, about aeroplanes. While Hike was trying to answer, a squad of soldiers hurried up with a machine-gun and ammunition, which they loaded on the freight-platform. Directing them was a handsome, serious young lieutenant of infantry, introduced to Hike as Lieutenant Duros, who grasped Hike’s hand with such awe and admiration that Hike had to warn himself not to get conceited. Suddenly he thought of two lines of the song of the Great Hazing: “And I have promised not to let my head get big again, When I go aviating on my airy aeroplane!” and grinned a real Hike grin, which he hastened to turn into a smile of greeting to Lieutenant Duros. “Can you ussss twelf soldiers?” asked the commander. “Yes”—and twelve men were closely packed about the machine-gun, on the freight-platform, while Lieutenant Duros climbed into the front passenger-seat. Hike started the _Hustle_ off easily. Except for a minute, at the yacht-wreck, he had never driven with anywhere near so many passengers. But she took the load well. He shifted the speed-change lever to the third speed and they hummed through the air, while the soldiers yelled with surprise, and grabbed one another. Through the motor-roar, Lieutenant Duros shouted a few sentences to Hike, treating him with such respect as one diplomat shows another. His English was excellent, though with a quaint little softening of the words. “These revolutionists—they are not revolutionists,” he cried. “We must wipe them out. I, I was with Madero, I was a _real_ revolutionist. Me, I send many pesos the year to Russia, for the revolutionists there. I love freedom. But these men, they are robbers. We must wipe them out.”