Bob Harding, who was sharp enough in some things, was quick to detect a change in the manner of the three supposed soldiers of fortune as they left the general's tent. "Don't much like the idea of going up against your own countrymen, eh?" he asked easily. "No," rejoined Jack frankly, "we don't." "Now look here, Hickey, isn't that drawing it pretty fine? Merrill and chaps like that have practically buncoed old Diaz into granting them all sorts of concessions, and----" "I'm pretty sure Merrill never did, whatever the rest may have done," was the quiet reply. "Eh-oh! Well, of course, it's all right to stick up for one's friends and that sort of thing, but I guess that you chaps, like myself, are down here to, line your pockets, aren't you?" "Perhaps," was the noncommittal reply. "Well, to be frank with you, I _am_. I'm down here just for what there is in it, and if I can see a chance to line my pockets by a quiet visit to the gold room of a mine, why, that's the mine owner's lookout, isn't it? I run my risk and ought to have some reward for it." "That's queer reasoning, Harding." "Say, Hickey, you're a rum sort of chap. So are your chums here, too. Not a bit what I expected you to be like. I thought you were rip-roaring sort of fellows, and you act more like a bunch of prize Sunday-school scholars." There was a taunting note in the words that Jack was not slow to catch. Particularly was the last part of Harding's speech brought out with an insulting inflection. Jack's temper blazed up. "See here, Harding," he snapped out, "do you know anything about dynamite?" "Eh? What? Yes, of course. But, good gracious, what's that got to do with----" "Everything. Dynamite doesn't say or do much till it goes off, does it?" "What are you driving at, my dear fellow, I----" "Just this;" Jack's eyes fairly snapped in the starlight, as he looked straight into Harding's weak, good-natured countenance; "don't monkey with high explosives. Savvy?" Harding's eyes fell. He mumbled something. For a minute he was abashed, but he soon regained his spirits. "Forgive me, Hickey," he exclaimed, "and you, too, Rafter and Divver. I thought you were just a bunch of kids, but now I see you are the real thing. Blown in the bottle, this side up, and all that. "Say, do you know," he went on, lowering his voice cautiously and bending forward as if afraid the coffee-colored sentry pacing near by might overhear, "for a while I even thought you were imposters." "No!" exclaimed Jack, starting back in well-assumed amazement. "Fact, I assure you. Funny, wasn't it?" "Not very funny for us had your suspicions been correct," put in Walt Phelps. "My dear Con, I should think not. Putting your eyes out with red-hot irons would be one of the least things that old Madero would do to you. Fatherly old chap, isn't he? But, as you said, Hickey: Don't fool with dynamite!" A few paces more brought the boys to their tent.