“My foreman has telegraphed me that he knows Welch is going to attack, though Welch is taking his time getting there, plundering on the way. If we get there by midnight, to-morrow night, we’ll probably be in time. “We’ll just have to fight. Welch has got the authorities so scared that they’re more likely to help him than to protect the rancheros. Martin Priest is coming with a tetrahedral—with the _Hustle_—and you and I will take that—it ought to be here by four this afternoon—and cart a machine-gun down to my rancho, and be ready for Welch. Is it a go?” “Sure. Four this afternoon? I’ll rush out to Santa Benicia for clothes and a revolver, and be back here before then. Oh, say, is Poodle in on this? Aw, please, please take him. He’ll be all broke up if he doesn’t get taken.” “I’m sorry—I wish we could; but it’s impossible. He’s a corking boy, but scarcely enough of a fighter for this—though, of course, he’s got plenty of courage.” Hike believed the Lieutenant wrong. He remembered how Poodle had stood up to Left Ear, showing enough courage in this schoolboy-fight to take him into a real battle, even with insurrectos. But the Lieutenant was his commander, and he merely saluted. “By the way, Hike, don’t even mention this. Just let the Headmaster and Poodle know where you’re going. They’ll keep still. I had to confide in the Headmaster myself. Be sure about this, for remember that if this got into the newspapers, it might mean big international trouble between the United States and Mexico—an American army officer fighting on Mexican territory. I’m going as a private citizen, a ranchero, and I don’t want any one to know I’m anything else.” “Right O!” promised Hike, and hurried out for the next train to Santa Benicia, wild with the joy of going, and feeling (it must be confessed) rather important, thus entrusted with a secret which could make trouble between two nations. * * * * * At Santa Benicia, Hike had two hard tasks that he had to get through quickly, and one that was a joy. This last was the packing of his aviating garments—his paper gloves, of a soft French paper, for warmth; his Balaclava aviator’s helmet; muffler, overalls, aluminoid-silk Flying Jacket; together with his revolver, water-bottle, and emergency box of capsules of food—with which, a flat pilly-looking lozenge made fair soup for a hungry and stranded aviator. He loved the things, for they meant flight and adventure. But he had those other two tasks. He had to tell Poodle that he couldn’t go along. Poodle was hard hit, though he pretended that he wasn’t, busily helping Hike pack.