“Well, if that gent thinks _that_ thing is an aeroplane wing, he’s counterfeiting aeroplanes, anyway,” complained Poodle. “I never _saw_ such a ridiculousness.” “Come on,” said Hike—a remark which he made very often, or so said Poodle, who now complained, “Every time I get settled down and comfy, looking at nice valleys, or an asylum for nutty aviators, you go and drag me away. Well, lead on, gallant captain.” As they descended the slope, out of the shed, keeping his back toward them, came the strangest man they had ever seen. He was dressed in one single garment of white—“a night-shirt that’s crazy as he is,” sniffed Poodle—with leather sandals on his feet, and with his wild, black hair falling to his shoulders. As he turned, they both cried out with wonder. The man’s black beard reached his chest. Even twenty feet away, they could see his eyes shining like a wild animal’s among the knotted hair that was towsled over his forehead. In his hand was a rod of metal. As he saw them he shrieked and started back, then rushed at them, waving the iron rod, and shouting “Go away! For your lives. G’ ’way!” He came up to them, stopped, and bellowed, “You boys get out of this or I’ll kill you. I’ll give you till I get my rifle, and if you ain’t gone then— I’ll brain you—I’ll kill you—” He came nearer, still waving the iron rod. There was quick team-play. Hike and Poodle picked up sticks, without a word. They separated and came at the man from opposite sides. He stopped. He dropped the iron rod. He ran his fingers through his beard and shouted, “What do you want? Whom are you spying for?” “No one,” explained Hike. “We’ve just been on a riding trip—down the coast from Monterey. Rode up Canyon Diablo, and came down this side of the Big Peak. Didn’t know there was anybody here. I’m awf’ly interested in aeroplanes, though. You see, my father—Major Griffin—I’m Jerry Griffin, this is Torry Darby—he’s in command of the Signal Corps at Monterey Presidio. Honest, I don’t want to butt in, but that funny box-kite thing there made me awf’ly interested. If we’re intruding, we’ll beat it, but I’d like to learn something about that thing.... You see I’ve been reading a bunch about aeroplanes, and Lieutenant Adeler—Jack Adeler, you know, invented the Adeler hydroaeroplane, the one that beat the record rising from the water—well, he’s at Monterey, and he’s showed me a lot about aeroplanes....” The man said nothing. He had seated himself upon a rock, twisting away at his long beard, looking as though he were in despair. Poodle and Hike stared at each other. Knowing nothing whatever about aeroplanes, Poodle could only remark, “Jiminy, never would expect to find a flyin’ machine shed back in the hills, _would_ you? Hope we ain’t butting in. We’ll keep our mouths shut. I guess we’re both gentlemen—or gentlekids, anyway!” “Yes,” continued Hike, while the man still kept silent, seeming not to hear. “I’m really sorry we found your place, if you feel—”