“Funny people, wild as March hares,” assented Hemingwood. “They’ll think several times before they really try to harm us, though. The most we’ve got to look forward to is another attempt to harm the ship, I imagine. Our hides will stay intact except under unusual circumstances. Let’s pitch the bungalow so I can catch a nap before dinner arrives.” Which they did. And Hemingwood, entirely unaffected by the note in his pocket, fell asleep immediately. He had much more interesting things to think about than crazy mountaineers. Miss Morgan, for instance. His awakening was very pleasant, being brought about through the medium of Gail Morgan’s far from unmusical voice. He thrust his tousled head through the flaps of the tent and smiled through the fog of heavy slumber. “I hope I’m awake and that this isn’t a dream,” he greeted her. “I brought you large sections of food which may be a little more appetizing than you could have found,” she told him, smiling down from her throne on Pegasus. “If urged, I might even toy delicately with some of it myself. My aunt couldn’t come.” She wore no hat, and her piquant face was framed in flying brown hair. Hemingwood smiled appreciatively at the picture she presented. “Where’s Apperson?” he inquired. “Asleep in the ship.” That worthy was awakened for the meal, which did not conclude until after twilight. Gail leaned back against one wheel of the ship in comfort. Hemingwood lay lazily at full length. Apperson went for a walk. He was a tactful man, was the sergeant. “Your uncle was a bit mysterious about this Ballardson bozo,” Hemingwood remarked. “There’s no love lost between them, is there?” “Oh, they get along all right,” Gail responded carelessly. “Uncle Ed doesn’t exactly approve of Ballardson, though?” “Why not, if I’m not too curious?” “He’s from the mountains, you know, and everybody knows that his garage business doesn’t amount to anything. His real occupation is transferring moonshine by truck into various towns--Covington and Cincinnati, principally.” “I see.” It was probably Ballardson who had sent that note, Hemingwood reflected. The garage man did not cotton to the idea of a ship flying above the mountains several hours a day, taking pictures which he would figure might be for the purpose of locating stills. He had taken a chance that the letter would scare the interlopers away. Hemingwood did not anticipate any more extreme measures, when the note failed to work. It had been his experience that the uniform of the United States Army aroused respect enough to make any wearer thereof immune from actual personal violence, under ordinary conditions. He had seen the effect of it on the border and likewise in these same Kentucky mountains. Except under unusual provocation, an army man was much safer than any other stranger could possibly be. “Has East Point got any minion of the law?” he asked. “Just Ballardson,” returned Gail, with that little chuckle that Hemingwood so enjoyed hearing.