The lost dirigible

By Ralph Henry Barbour

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The lost dirigible

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The lost dirigible

Author: Ralph Henry Barbour

Illustrator: Charles L. Wrenn

Release date: October 4, 2026 [eBook #79722]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1920

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79722

Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST DIRIGIBLE ***

THE
LOST DIRIGIBLE

[Illustration: “I GOT HIM,” SAID HUGH]

THE
LOST DIRIGIBLE

BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

AUTHOR OF “FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS,” “GUARDING HIS GOAL,”
“UNDER THE YANKEE ENSIGN,” ETC.

[Illustration]

FRONTISPIECE

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1920

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE
I. OFF TO THE BORDER 1
II. THE AGREEABLE STRANGER 9
III. CAMP STANTON 22
IV. THE SILVER SHIPS 32
V. ABOARD THE “FATE” 45
VI. “CAST OFF!” 58
VII. AT THE MERCY OF THE STORM 72
VIII. LOST IN THE CLOUDS 86
IX. FRIEND OR ENEMY? 95
X. SOLDIERS OF LIBERTY 107
XI. OUTNUMBERED 119
XII. “SEÑOR GONZALES” 133
XIII. GUESTS OF TITO ROZA 144
XIV. HELD FOR RANSOM 157
XV. FRENCH LEAVE 169
XVI. FOUR AGAINST MANY 184
XVII. PURSUED 192
XVIII. THE BATTLE IN THE AIR 199
XIX. A MESSAGE TO THE HEATHEN 210
XX. THE “FATE” COMES HOME 225
XXI. FOR PURPOSES OF OBSERVATION 241
XXII. SENTENCED TO DEATH 249
XXIII. THE RESCUE 264

THE LOST DIRIGIBLE

CHAPTER I

OFF TO THE BORDER

“Report to Commanding Officer Naval Aviation Base, Punta Rio, Texas.”

Such was the order that sent Jack Sterling hiking south that first hot
week in August. Forty-eight hours’ leave allowed him a visit home,
however, and it was not until the morning of the sixth that he bade
good-by to his folks and started off for the station in one of Mike
Connell’s rattling taxis, his battered suit-case beside him and his
small trunk swaying tipsily about on the seat outside. Oddly enough,
it was Jerry Connell who drove that morning. He and Jerry had gone to
school together in Mount Warren, had played together and, at times,
had fought together. The fact that Jack was the son of Judge Sterling,
a citizen of prominence and some wealth, and that Jerry was the heir
apparent to the town’s principal liveryman had made no difference.
Nor did it now, for the two had nearly wrung each other’s hands off
at meeting, and all the way to the station Jack, sitting well forward
on his seat, conversed with the driver through the open front window
of the little car. As Jack had not been home since shortly after
Christmas, there was much news to be told, and as they rattled and
bumped down the long, straight length of Adams Street, Jerry’s head
was turned half around and his tongue kept busy. When, however, he
had guided the car through the traffic of the Square and was bouncing
over the cobbles of Ferry Street, under the many-windowed front of
the knitting mill, he began to put questions himself. Because of the
whirring and clicking that came from the building beside them he had to
shout to make himself heard.

“Well, you got your commission, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Last month.”

Jerry turned further around and cast an admiring look at the insignia
adorning the sleeve of his friend’s coat. “I heard you had,” he
continued. “Steve Perry, down at the Post Office, said you’ve got a
stripe and he read it in the paper. Ensign, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” answered Jack, “and without ever being at sea!”

“Get out!”

“Fact. The nearest I got to it was six months at Norfolk on a receiving
ship that never left the dock. Maybe I’m due for better luck now,
though. I’m going down to Texas.”

“That so? But, say, Texas isn’t―― There isn’t any water around Texas,
is there?”

“Well, there’s considerable of it along one side, Jerry, about four
hundred miles of the Gulf of Mexico.”

“That’s right, too. I’d forgot that. I always think of Texas as being
inland like. I never was any good at geography, anyway. I suppose
you’ll be fighting Mexicans before long, eh? Is there really all the
trouble down there the papers say there is?”

“I don’t believe so. The papers generally make those things out rather
worse than they are. Still, there’s a chance of trouble, I guess, and
I’m tickled to death to get down there. All the fellows back at the
Yard were green with envy when I told them about my transfer. What’s
bothering me is that I’m ordered to report to the Aviation Corps. That
doesn’t sound much like salt water. I’ve never qualified for the flying
service. I’m guessing!”

“Radio’s your line, isn’t it?” asked Jerry.

“Yes, and if they stick me in an aëroplane I’ll probably die of fright!
Mother’s worried sick for fear I’ll get killed. I had to promise her
I’d wear a parachute around my neck every minute!”

“Gosh, Jack, I’d certainly love to go up in one o’ those things! Wish
I’d tried for the navy when you did that time. Guess they wouldn’t have
taken me, though, on account of my eyes. That’s what kept me out of the
army, you know. Made me feel like an awful fool, too. Folks used to ask
me when I was going, and when I’d tell ’em I hadn’t passed they’d sort
of grin, and I’d know they thought I was lying. Guess the old Kaiser
wasn’t any gladder than I was when they signed that armistice! Say, you
must be eighteen now, aren’t you? You’re about a year younger than me
if I remember right.”

“Eighteen next month. I try hard to look older, but I don’t succeed
very well, I guess.”

Jerry grinned. “You surely don’t, kid. Fact is, you look more like
seventeen than eighteen. You were always like that, though. I remember
when we went to the old primary school together. You looked like you’d
climbed out of the cradle and run away!”

“If I could only raise a mustache it mightn’t be so bad,” said Jack,
ruefully. “But a mustache on anything under an admiral isn’t thought
well of in the navy! Well, I’m awfully glad to have seen you again,
Jerry. I’ll drop you a post-card some day when I get down there
and tell you what I’m doing. Mind lugging that trunk around to the
baggage-room? Here, I’ll give you a hand with it.”

“Lay off!” protested Jerry. “You’d look fine toting your own trunk
around, wouldn’t you? Don’t they teach you respect for your uniform
where you come from?”

“Sure,” laughed Jack. “And they teach us to take hold when there’s work
to be done, too! All right, Jerry, I’ll toddle behind with the bag.”

Jack’s father had come down from his office for a final leave-taking
and was waiting on the platform when he got there. The remaining
minutes were occupied in securing transportation and checking the
trunk, and then the long train was puffing into the station and Jack
was climbing aboard. The Judge’s smile never faltered, but there was
much earnestness in his final grip and in his words as the train moved
off.

“Write often, son,” he said, “for we’re going to be pretty anxious now,
mother and I. I sort of hope you’ll land on a ship and not a flying
machine. But, you be careful and――and do your duty and――――”

If there was more, Jack didn’t hear it, for the train was moving fast.
He smiled reassuringly, waved from the car steps and saw his father
and Jerry Connell and all the others on the platform merge and dwindle
and pass from sight. Then, from his seat in the parlor car he watched
the home town gradually disappear; the mills and the long lines of
operatives’ houses, the wagon bridge over North Creek, the pool in the
old brick yard where he and Jerry and many others had skated in winter
and paddled in summer, the pretty stucco, vine-clad cottages in the
new residence district on what had used to be Town Line Hill, the old
Fair Grounds, with the withered reminders of a war garden bleaching in
the hot morning sunlight, and then the open, rolling country glimpsed
between rows of freight cars along the sidings.

Presently Jack opened his bag and took out a book. It was a treatise
on aërial navigation which he had hurriedly procured in the city two
days before. For awhile he studied the pictures and diagrams and
then, settling back in his seat, began to read. Jack’s ignorance of
the subject was colossal, for, save that he had watched airplanes and
seaplanes in flight often enough, he couldn’t have told why they
flew had his life depended on it. But he meant to find out, since,
no matter what sort of duty might be awaiting him at Punta Rio, it
certainly behooved him to know something at least of the theory of
flying. Even if his assignment should prove to be ground work, and he
rather expected it would, he would nevertheless be thrown in with men
who knew aviation as well as he knew radiotelegraphy, and it would be a
convenience, if no more, to be able to understand their talk. When he
passed into the dining car for luncheon he took the book along and went
on reading as he ate. There was much he couldn’t quite understand, but
on the whole he made progress, and when, shortly after three o’clock,
the train drew into the city he could have spoken quite knowingly of
torsion and stability and poise, having reached page 114. Nevertheless
there was a perplexed look on his face as he stuffed the book back into
his suit-case, and he mentally echoed his father’s hope that the deck
of a ship and not the car of an aëroplane would prove to be his station!

He had a wait of over two hours in the city, and, checking his
suitcase, he went forth and made a few simple purchases, consuming as
much time as possible over each. But it still lacked an hour of train
time when he got back to the terminal and so, buying an evening paper
at the news stand, he found a seat in the waiting-room and spread
it out before him. The first headline to meet his gaze gripped his
attention. “Mexican Situation Grows More Acute,” he read. “British and
French Warships Reach Tampico. War Department Gives Number of American
Troops Along Border as 154,000. Raiders Cross Rio Grande at Las Orgas
and Thurston. Twelve Mexicans Killed and Many Taken Prisoner. Eight
Americans Wounded and Three Missing. State Department Denies Receipt of
Answer to President’s Note.” Jack read the dispatches with pursed lips.
Maybe, after all, the papers were for once telling no more than the
facts, he thought. At all events, affairs along the border were in bad
shape. And the arrival of British and French ships at Tampico looked
like business. He didn’t pretend to understand the right and wrong of
Mexico’s position in the controversy regarding her oil fields, but he
was willing to bet a month’s pay that if they’d just give the word to
the United States Navy the whole thing could be settled in a wink!
Whereupon, stuffing the paper in his pocket, he retrieved his suit-case
and sought the train-shed. Of course he couldn’t hurry that train off,
but at least he could see that it wasn’t delayed on his account!

CHAPTER II

THE AGREEABLE STRANGER

Two days later, dust-covered, parched by the heat until he felt as he
believed a slice of dried apple must feel, Jack lolled in a corner
of his seat in the sleeping car and watched the sun-bathed fields of
southeastern Texas dawdle past the window. Houston was four hours
behind and the end of his journey was as many hours ahead. It was too
hot to read, too hot to move around and too hot to sit still, and his
frame of mind was far from serene. Until last night the trip had been
rather pleasant. His fellow passengers had proved companionable and the
country through which he had passed had been novel and interesting. But
at Houston the occupants of the sleeper had changed. So far as he knew,
he was the only one of the original members left; and the new lot,
fewer in number, seemed unusually commonplace.

There was, however, one exception; in fact, two. The first was a youth
of perhaps nineteen who wore the navy uniform and the foul anchor of
an ensign on the collar of his service coat. He was a good-looking
chap, if a trifle haughty. Jack thought no less of him for looking
haughty, but it certainly lessened the chance of becoming acquainted.
It seemed rather a shame, too, for Jack wanted some one to talk and ask
questions of, and it was a fair wager that the two lone representatives
of the United States Navy were bound for the same destination. But
the second ensign seemed absolutely uninterested in the existence of
the first and, after a swift, appraising look on entering the car at
Houston, had never again so much as glanced Jack’s way. Instead, he
had immediately become immersed in a book――Jack was grimly certain it
wasn’t on the subject of aërial navigation!――and scarcely once lifted
his eyes from its pages. He sat five seats beyond Jack, on the other
side of the car, and only the top of his head was visible, and after
awhile Jack had lost interest in it. Whereupon he had become aware of
Señor Gonzales.

Of course, that was probably not his name, but it was what Jack
mentally dubbed him. He, too, was across the aisle and one seat back,
and Jack could see him from his corner without really turning his
head. He was unmistakably Mexican, belonging to what the boy presumed
to be the better class. He was ridiculously small, small any way you
judged him. In height he couldn’t have been above five feet and four
inches, and that in shoes, that were, as Jack noted, uncommonly high
of heel. Everything was small about him, almost delicate. His hands
and feet were about half the size of Jack’s, his head was small, his
limbs alarmingly slight. But he appeared to be perfectly built for all
of that. His complexion was dark and his skin smooth, and everything
about him, from his waxy brown shoes to his wide Panama hat, was
immaculate. He was dressed for the climate, it seemed, in a white silk
shirt and a suit of some light-weight material of greenish-gray hue.
A rather startling yellow scarf was the only discordant note in his
careful attire. From it a large emerald pin glowed. He wore two rings
on his left hand and a costly-looking watch adorned his wrist. He was a
handsome chap, thought Jack, and had an air about him. He was the first
Mexican that Jack had ever seen, so far as he knew, and he concluded
that if all his countrymen were no bigger than he there ought not to be
much difficulty in persuading them to behave themselves!

Once the Mexican gentleman looked up while Jack was studying him with
frank curiosity and smiled and bowed. After an instant’s hesitation
Jack returned the bow, rather stiffly, but didn’t smile. He presumed
that Mexicans greeted strangers that way as a matter of courtesy, and
it might be all right when you were used to it, but for his part he
felt just a little embarrassed. After that he scrupulously refrained
from looking at Señor Gonzales.

“If,” he said to himself with a chuckle, “he caught me rubbering at him
again he’d probably come over here and kiss me!”

He tried hard to get through another chapter of his book on aërial
navigation, but it was hard sledding, and presently he laid it aside
and got up. For want of another refuge, he walked back into the smoking
compartment. A man who looked as if he might be a ranchman and another
who had “drummer” written all over him were in sole possession. Jack
found a seat in a corner of a leather couch and for awhile listened
to the conversation. It wasn’t very interesting, though, and soon he
turned his attention to the view.

The air was perceptibly cooler now, for the railroad was paralleling
the Gulf, and a faint breeze wafted through the open window beside
him. Ten minutes later he was aroused from his reflections by a suave,
pleasant voice at his shoulder.

“Pardon me, sir, but have you a match?”

Turning, Jack found that the Mexican had entered the compartment and
taken a seat at his side. Jack wasn’t sure whether he had such a thing
as a match. He didn’t smoke, but he sometimes tucked a few in a pocket.
While he was investigating his gaze fell on a box fixed between the
windows and he reached forth and took it from its receptacle, handing
it to his neighbor. The latter accepted it gratefully, with a dazzling
display of small white teeth.

“I am most stupid,” he apologized. “I did not see.” He held a silver
cigarette case out. “Will you smoke?” he asked.

Jack thanked him, but declined. Conversation followed naturally.
“Señor Gonzales” was a most interesting companion and most frank
regarding his personal affairs. He was, it appeared, returning to his
home near Matamoros from a visit in Chicago, a visit partly concerned
with business and partly devoted to pleasure. He had many agreeable
things to say about Chicago and the United States in general, and he
seemed desirous of convincing Jack of his friendly regard for America
and things American. The ranchman and the drummer departed unnoted
and another passenger took his place in the compartment without Jack
being more than dimly aware of his arrival. The Mexican gentleman
was speaking of his own country and speaking so eloquently and
picturesquely and in such excellent English that his audience was quite
absorbed. A half-hour passed pleasantly. Jack almost forgot the heat
and the train dust. His companion lighted fresh cigarettes at regular
intervals. At last he interrupted himself with a gesture of contrition.
“But I fear that the señor is not interested! I bore him! I――what is it
you say in your country?――I hog the conversation, _si_? Tell me now of
yourself, señor. You are of the navy?”

Jack protested that he had not been in the least bored, that he had, on
the contrary, greatly enjoyed the other’s talk, but the Mexican shook
his head, waved a delicate hand gayly and laughed.

“No, no! You are most polite, but I have talked enough. You, perhaps,
come from Chicago?”

Jack denied it and mentioned his place of residence. The other shook
his head. “I do not know it. I have been to Chicago, to New York and
to Philadelphia. I admire all those cities. I admire your wonderful
hotels, señor. The Americans are remarkable. In my country,”――he
shrugged――“we are so far behind. Only in Mexico City have we fine
hotels and theaters and _casas_. Perhaps you will see our country,
señor.”

“I’d like to, but I guess there’s no such luck,” replied Jack. “I’m
ordered to Punta Rio for duty. And,” he added jokingly, “I suppose
Mexico is a bit unhealthy just now for Americans.”

“Unhealthy?” echoed the other innocently. “Only in the low country,
señor, and one does not travel there at any time of year. In Mexico
City the climate is now delicious, much cooler than in your Chicago.
Rain, yes, but not to inconvenience.”

“I meant that owing to――to political differences of opinion,” stammered
Jack, “we Americans might not be welcome.”

“No, señor, you are wrong, I assure you! The _politicos_ make talk,
but it is nothing else. We are badly governed, señor. It has been so
always. There is discontent, uneasiness. We quarrel amongst ourselves,
_si_, but with our good neighbor, no! For your country we have much
respect, great admiration.”

“But your people along the border have a way of stirring things up now
and then,” laughed Jack.

“Ah, that is so. But they are ignorant persons, _rusticos_, misled by
brigands. They are like your robbers of trains, señor, and but seek to
enrich themselves. One does not take them seriously. For the rest”――he
shrugged again and smiled charmingly――“this foolish president of ours
has made a wrong decision and now but seeks to save his face. In a
little time he will come to terms. What else can he do? He cannot fight
America and Great Britain and France, señor! Already, or so they say,
he is seeking a way out that will not be hurtful to his pride. No, no,
there is no ill-feeling in my country for yours. You will be as safe
in Mexico City as in your own home. I hope you will make us a visit,
señor. You will find much to interest you.”

“You live there, sir? In Mexico City?”

“I am there much of the time, señor. My home is in the north. It is not
far distant from Tampico, where your ships are gathered. I own iron
mines there. This Punta Rio of which you speak is near the border?”

“Yes. I’ve never been there. The map shows it almost on the border.”

“I do not know it.” The Mexican lighted a fresh cigarette. “It is what
you call a Naval Station, doubtless.”

“Yes. I don’t believe there are many ships there, though. I think it is
more an aviation camp.”

“Ah! You interest me, señor. I have always admired the brave ones who
fly in the air. Such courage! Such _audacia_! And the wonderful ships
that dart and wheel like great birds! Always they excite me, make my
heart to leap! You, then, are one of those brave aviators, señor?”

“No, that’s not my line,” answered Jack. “I’m a radio operator. Of
course, I might have to go on an aëroplane, but I don’t expect to.
Usually they take fellows who have trained for it. I’ll be just as
happy if I don’t, too, for I guess I’d be pretty well scared.”

“The señor does himself injustice,” murmured the other politely. “I am
certain that he is of a great courage, like all his compatriots. These
aëroplanes that you mention, there are doubtless a great many of them?
Ten, twenty, perhaps even more?”

“I guess there are easily twenty,” answered Jack carelessly.

“Consider it! And they are all at this Punta Rio? Or do they also
station themselves elsewhere?”

“Oh, I guess there are more in other places. I――――”

Jack paused. For a minute or more he had been subconsciously aware of
a disturbing sound, a tapping it seemed, that he had set down as a
part of the noise of the train. But now he looked startledly across
the compartment. In the corner by the window the haughty ensign was
seated. Jack had known of the presence of a third person, but had been
too absorbed in conversation to pay any heed to that person’s identity.
The ensign appeared to be interested only in the monotonous landscape
flowing past the window, and perhaps he was not aware that the tapping
of a pencil on the sill might be annoying to the other occupants of the
compartment. At least, he did not discontinue it, and Jack, listening
to the tapping, flushed.

“_Shut your fool mouth!_”

That is what the pencil said in Navy Code.

For an instant Jack was mad clear through. Then he realized that
perhaps the warning, as discourteous as it was, was called for.
Perhaps, come to think of it, he had been talking rather too freely
considering that his listener was a Mexican! But he didn’t think it
necessary for the other chap to speak so disrespectfully of his mouth!

The pencil went on tapping, but now the taps were meaningless, and
after a moment the ensign returned it to his pocket. Jack turned to
find the Mexican gentleman’s gaze fixed serenely on him.

“You were saying, señor――――”

“Oh――why――what were we speaking of?” stammered Jack.

“Of the gallant airships, señor. But it is of no consequence. I had
merely asked――――”

“Oh, yes! Well, I don’t know much about ’em. You see, this is my first
trip down this way. Fact is, I haven’t been in the service long enough
to get onto things yet.”

“Doubtless there is much to learn,” assented the other. “You men of the
sea lead a life far different from that of us who dwell ashore. I know
but little of the sea. And what little I know I do not like, señor. It
is too――too――uneasy. It makes me most unhappy inside. I prefer to stay
on land, me!” He tossed aside a half-consumed cigarette and arose. “I
have much enjoyed our little talk, señor,” he said. “I hope we shall
meet again. Now I will take a siesta before the train arrives at the
junction. Adios, señor.”

Señor Gonzales went out. Jack wanted to follow, but as it might look
like running away he didn’t. Instead, he pretended elaborate interest
in the view. He heard his brother ensign shuffle his feet, but he
didn’t look across. After a few minutes:

“I thought you were never going to get that,” said his neighbor
pleasantly.

Jack removed his gaze from the landscape and fixed it on the speaker.
“You needn’t have worried, thanks,” he said dryly. “I wasn’t telling
any secrets.”

“Maybe not, son, but you seemed headed that way. It’s just as well not
to talk navy affairs in public.”

“This isn’t war-time,” replied Jack haughtily.

“Isn’t it? Well, it’s mighty near it. And when you get to telling the
location and number of navy seaplanes you’re talking too much. If you
want to get huffy about it, all right. You’re not bothering me any. But
you’d better fight shy of that cute little Mex or he will pump you dry.”

“I’ll look after that, thanks!”

The other laughed as he pulled himself from his seat. “Say, you’re a
touchy guy, aren’t you? Sorry if I stepped on your toes, son. As our
picturesque friend says, ‘adios.’”

“Go to thunder,” muttered Jack. But he didn’t say it until the other’s
footsteps had ceased in the corridor outside. “And quit calling me
‘son,’ too,” he continued. “I’m not much younger than you are, you
stuck-up pup!”

Perhaps his ill-temper was partly due to the realization that if it
hadn’t been for the message of the tapping pencil the agreeable
stranger would have, as the obnoxious ensign put it, pumped him dry!
After this, he promised himself grumpily, he wouldn’t tell any one even
the time of day!

CHAPTER III

CAMP STANTON

Jack had no further intercourse with either “Señor Gonzales” or
his brother officer while the journey lasted. Some two hours later
the Mexican left the train at the junction and presumably traveled
westward. His leave-taking of Jack consisted of a bow and a flashing
glimpse of small and very white teeth. Jack’s response was decidedly
stiff. They were now close to the border, and the platform of the
station held many dark-skinned men in picturesque attire. With one of
these, Jack thought, he saw “Señor Gonzales” in conversation in the lee
of the station as the train crawled on once more.

As for the haughty ensign, that young gentleman seemed to have
completely forgotten Jack’s existence again. He read, dozed, stared
from his window and was as thoroughly bored as was Jack. The latter
tried hard to peruse his book on aërial navigation, but southern Texas
in August isn’t just the place in which to combine railway travel
and study. To be sure, as the shadows grew long a refreshing breeze
blew through the car and brought a degree of animation to the dozen
or so occupants. Once, for a brief instant, Jack caught sight of the
sparkling waters of the Gulf, but for the most part sun-baked earth
and cloudless blue sky met his gaze. After awhile the sky changed
its hue to saffron, purple shadows crept over the land and a white
star twinkled in the heavens. And then, quite suddenly, as it seemed
to Jack, it was evening. The other navy chap began to gather his
belongings together, as did several others in the car, and so Jack
followed their example, and he had scarcely closed his bag before the
end of his journey arrived.

A confused impression of twinkling lights and voices and chugging
motors and a soft, cool breeze was his as he stood for a moment on the
platform and peered about him in the gloom. Then, his gaze led by the
noise of an automobile engine, he descried the darker bulk of a motor
vehicle of some sort and made his way to it.

“I want to get to Camp Stanton,” he told the dim form of the driver.
“Can you tell me――――”

“Jump in,” was the cheerful reply. “Any more coming, do you think?”

“There was another officer on the train――――”

“Got him.” The horn squawked loudly as Jack fumbled up a step at
the rear and, feeling his way along the dark interior, tripped over
something that might have been a bag and went sprawling to a seat.

“I beg pardon,” he gasped.

“All right,” answered his unseen companion. Jack recognized the voice.
He could have kicked himself for his clumsiness then. The driver was
speaking, his head turned toward the gloomy recess of the auto. “Any
baggage to go?” he asked. “There’s plenty of room to-night and I can
take another trunk or two.”

Jack found his check and the driver disappeared. Silence reigned in
the auto. It was a covered vehicle with a cushioned seat running along
each side. Two headlights bored white paths into the darkness in front,
but the interior was as black as a pocket. Jack could make out dimly,
as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the form of the ensign
nearer the door. He wondered if the latter had purposely tripped him
up with his feet or deliberately placed his bag in the way. His face
grew warm as he imagined the other’s delight at his clumsiness. Then
a trunk thumped to the driver’s seat and the vehicle rocked, the horn
blew startlingly, there was a swift grinding of gears and they were
off. After a moment they were careening through the town, a place of
wide, rutted streets and one-story stores from which the light streamed
as they passed. Then, with a sudden turn that almost threw Jack from
his seat, the auto leaped forward at higher speed over a hard, smooth
roadway and the yellow glow of the little town fell farther and farther
behind. Through the back of the auto Jack could see a star-sprinkled
sky like blue-black velvet and nothing more. Under his feet the auto
shook and vibrated and from ahead came the steady hum of the motor.
There was no way of knowing, but he told himself that if that wild
driver out there wasn’t hitting it up to fifty he missed his guess!

But the ride was brief and presently the auto was slowing down and,
without seeing, Jack knew that they had reached Camp Stanton. Through
the canvas sides lights filtered as they passed and now and then a
voice reached him. The auto stopped.

“B Barracks!” announced the driver. “Headquarters opposite. Hey, Gus!
Give me a lift with these trunks!”

Jack followed the other passenger out and found himself confronted
by a doorway which led from a low veranda into a long, many-windowed
building. Khaki-clad forms graced the veranda’s edge and the wide
street gave back the sound of passing footsteps. From somewhere
overhead came the droning of an airplane. Jack set his bag down and
looked for Headquarters. The haughty ensign had disappeared.

“Right across there, friend, if it’s H. Q. you’re wanting,” volunteered
a tall chap who was leaning against a nearby post. “Ask for Lieutenant
Greenlee.”

“Thanks.” Jack took up his bag again and crossed to the smaller
building opposite. At the door a guard passed him on to an orderly and
a moment later he was facing an elderly, bronzed-faced man across a
wide desk.

“‘Sterling, John L., Ensign,’” corroborated the lieutenant, referring
to a card in his hand. “Had any aviation experience, Sterling?”

“No, sir.”

The lieutenant’s brows arose and he sighed. “Don’t understand why they
send us your sort,” he complained. “Ever been up at all?”

“No, sir.”

“Of course not! If you had they’d have assigned you to the submarine
service! What did you think you were going to do here, Sterling?”

“I didn’t know, sir. I supposed I’d get duty on one of the ships.”

“Ships? We haven’t any ships here! Well, not your fault, I suppose.
Report to Lieutenant Badger, B Barracks. That’s all.”

On the way out Jack passed his traveling companion in the corridor. The
latter nodded, a quizzical look on his face. Jack nodded in return, and
then wished he hadn’t.

Half an hour later he was settled. He had a bunk in the long building,
his trunk was set beside it, he had had his fill of sandwiches,
doughnuts and coffee――all there was to be had at the time of
night,――and he was sitting outside on the veranda with the soft
Gulf breeze ruffling his bare head. Before him in the darkness the
twinkling electric lights marched away toward the shore between rows
of buildings. Right and left they marched as well, diminishing to mere
pin-points in the distance. Not far off, above the story-high barracks,
a larger shape loomed against the starlit sky, monstrous, mysterious,
a great black bulk in the darkness. The drone of the night fliers had
ceased. From further along the veranda came the tinkling of a guitar
and voices singing softly. Perhaps if the songs had been more cheerful
they would not have affected Jack as they did, but “Suwanee River” and
“Old Black Joe” and other more recent but no more cheerful ditties
sent his spirits down and down until, before long, he was thoroughly
homesick. Before taps had sounded he was lying in his bunk feeling
very miserable. The thought of having to “go up” filled him with
apprehension. He was quite sure that he would disgrace himself by being
very sick or fainting or doing something equally horrible. And if he
did, it was dollars to doughnuts that that insufferable ensign would be
on hand to see it!

Gradually the barracks filled and jests and laughter sounded about him.
Outside, a bugle called taps and was echoed farther away. The long
room became dark save for a single light at one end. Silence reigned
at last. Jack was sure he would never go to sleep. But the little soft
breeze came in through the open windows and blew gently over his tired
eyes, and presently they closed.

The next thing he knew it was morning and reveille was sounding. A
babel of sound came from the barracks. And through a window across the
room, down a long street, lay the blue waters of the Gulf, sparkling
in the pale sunlight of early morning. And Jack, homesickness all
forgotten, leaped forth, happy, hungry and eager for life.

Roll-call, and then breakfast at a long table in the big building
across the way. It was Jack’s first opportunity to view his comrades
and he found them a fine-looking lot. Young men were much in the
majority, and to Jack “young” meant under twenty-two or three. There
was little talk at breakfast, for every one seemed too busy for
conversation. But later, out in the sunlit street and along the
knee-high verandas, there was much conjecture as to what was going
to happen, and wild rumors were rife. Discovering that Jack had just
arrived from the north, a neighbor on the veranda’s edge asked if it
was true that the marines had landed at Vera Cruz. Jack had to confess
that he had neither heard nor read of it.

“Well, if it wasn’t in the papers,” replied the other disappointedly,
“I guess there’s nothing in it. You hear all sorts of wild yarns down
here. We don’t get any papers until they’re ’most a week old, it seems.
A couple of days ago we heard that the Eighth Cavalry was off to round
up that guy Roza and his gang. I guess that was a lie too, eh?”

“I think so. I believe our troops have crossed the border several
times, but only a little ways.”

“Well, they’ll be crossing it all right before long,” said the other.
“And so’ll we. All those French and British ships down at Tampico ain’t
there just to see the view, either, I’ll tell the world. Oh, we’ll get
into it this time, buddy!”

“You’re in the marines, aren’t you?” Jack tried to get a view of the
insignia on the chap’s buttons.

“Yeah, and I wish I was back with the gang, wherever they are. This
aërial business gets my goat!”

“Are you a flyer?” asked Jack interestedly.

“Me? Not on your life! I’m a perfectly good gunner, and I’m here trying
to show a lot of dubs how to take a gun apart and put it together again
without leaving out more’n half the parts. You won’t see any flyers
around these diggings. They’re sort of special. Have a barracks all to
themselves over beyond the balloon sheds.”

“Balloon sheds? Oh, is that what the big building over there is? I
didn’t know there were any balloons here.”

“Yeah, and there are five or six more of ’em over by the water.
Balloons? Gee, we got a bunch o’ the crazy things. Every time one goes
up we get ready to duck. Last week one of ’em came down square on the
Q. M. building and busted the roof in. Airplanes and flying boats are
bad enough, but these here dirigibles are just plumb loony! I wouldn’t
go up in one of ’em for two stars on my straps!”

“I should think they’d be safer than aëroplanes,” mused Jack.

“Not them! Why, when you go up in an airplane you know where you’re
going, see? And you go there, and when you want to come back, why, you
just push a rod and come. But, gee, these dirigibles――say, when one of
those starts off it don’t know where it’s going or when it’s going to
get there! One of ’em started off the other day for Fort Worth, and the
next day a destroyer picked her up about three hundred miles out in the
Gulf and towed her in――or what was left of her, which wasn’t much!”

“But they’ve flown over the ocean several times,” objected Jack. “And
all over Europe, too. Why, just last week one went from England to some
place in India.”

“Yeah, well, they weren’t this kind, friend. Those were whopping big
fellows; rigid, too. And they didn’t buck against these here Gulf
winds. They say when you get up a couple of hundred feet around here
the wind blows four ways at once. These scouts of ours, as they call
’em, are too small, I guess. And they ain’t rigid. Semi-rigid is what
they are. Alongside those British dirigibles of the S Class they’d look
like a kid’s toy balloon. Still and all, they tell me that they’re
expecting big things from ’em. I dunno. Maybe they’ll get onto their
curves after awhile and make ’em behave. There’s drill call. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER IV

THE SILVER SHIPS

For two days life went on busily and uneventfully for Jack. Camp
Stanton proved to be a far larger place than he had expected to find.
And every day saw it increase in size, new faces appearing at mess. The
big camions rolled over from the railway filled with mammoth crates
from which, as if by magic, aëroplanes or seaplanes evolved. From
across the Gulf the yellow-winged birds of war _zoomed_ their way and
spare, keen-eyed youngsters, leather garbed, climbed forth stiffly.
All day the planes dipped and circled over sea and land and from dawn
until dark the sheds where engines were tested and repaired hummed
and clattered. It was a colorful scene as well as a busy one, for the
southern sun shone hotly over all. Sea and sky were intensely blue and
even the drab buildings of the camp added their tones of light and
shadow. And high over all the stars-and-stripes fluttered languidly in
the soft breeze.

For four hours each day Jack, with many other freshly arrived radio
officers, received instruction. They were required to acquaint
themselves with aëroplane and balloon installations and to repairing
and replacing parts, to perfect themselves in the recently improved
wireless telephony and to thoroughly learn a new code. He saw no more
for the time of his traveling companion, for the latter bunked and
messed in C Barracks, but he made many new acquaintances and began to
thoroughly enjoy the life. Idle moments were few, but when they came
he usually made his way down the long, straight street that led to the
shore and the circling line of sheds that held the hydro-aëroplanes.
Between beach and hangars was a broad expanse of concrete, and here at
any time of day a score or more of flying boats were to be found. He
made friends with the mechanics and groundmen, and even with the alert,
clear-eyed flyers themselves. For the latter he had boundless respect
and admiration. Every one was a hero in Jack’s eyes, and, although he
was careful not to show it, he was immensely flattered when one spoke
to him. He watched them go whirring aloft with awe and, it must be
confessed, a sinking sensation in his stomach, for, since the only
ships at Punta Rio were three destroyers and a supply ship, it seemed
fairly evident that when he was assigned to duty it would be on one of
these marvelous but fearsome machines, and Jack had the average lad’s
dread of height. It was not until the morning of his third day at camp
that an alternative suggested itself.

Then, returning from drill, he heard a derisive cheer from some men
ahead and, following their gaze, saw a sight that brought a thrill of
delight and wonder. At the far edge of the camp, slowly ascending above
the roofs of the buildings, floated a great silver-gray shape. Even at
the distance of half a mile it was both monstrous and majestic. As he
looked a second shape came into sight farther off, and, turning lazily,
the sunlight flashing on their silvery bodies, the two dirigibles, ever
rising, came floating sedately over the camp. Presently the big black
symbols on the sides became easily legible: on the foremost and nearer
balloon, _F 8_, on the other, _F 9_.

“Wonder what they’ll drop on this time,” remarked a cynical youth at
Jack’s side. “It isn’t safe to have those things flying around over
your head.”

Along the water’s edge the dirigibles passed, but several hundred feet
above it, and Jack could see the heads of the crew over the edge of the
suspended hull and hear the high-voiced throb of the engines. Presently
they swung their tails toward home and, still climbing gradually, grew
smaller and smaller. Jack watched until they were scarcely more than
specks against the blue and then was surprised to find himself all
alone. Every one else had gone along.

“Just like a Rube staring at a skyscraper,” he chuckled as he followed.
“But, gee, they’re wonderful things,” he added. “Now, if they’ll put
me on one of those I won’t mind it a bit. That’s funny, too,” he added
to himself reflectively, “because I guess they go up pretty high. But,
somehow, they look a whole lot safer. I wonder if I asked the luff if
he’d fix it for me.”

That afternoon he made his way to the far side of camp where the great
balloon sheds stood. There were six of these, side by side, each nearly
three hundred feet in length and some sixty feet wide. Capable of
housing such ships as those Jack had seen that morning, the tops of
their arching roofs were a good seventy feet above the ground. On each
side were two tiers of big windows and the front ends opened outward in
the shape of two huge many-trussed doors. To-day but two of the sheds
were open and Jack peered into these with wondering interest. They
were empty of their occupants, however, and his curiosity had to be
satisfied from a respectful distance, for guards warned him away when
he approached too close. From other of the buildings sounds of work
issued and machinists and riggers came and went through small doors.
He hoped the dirigibles that had gone away in the morning would return
while he could see their descent, but they didn’t. They must, however,
have come back later, for the next day, when he again made a visit to
what was now for him the most interesting part of the camp, the big
doors were all tightly shut.

That night, after chow, he dug his book on aërial navigation out of
his trunk and turned to the chapters on power balloons. When he slept
it was to dream a wonderful and strange dream in which he was floating
through space in what may have been a balloon, but which seemed to
resemble far more the business section of Mount Warren. At least he
distinctly remembered, when he woke, having gone into Patterson’s Drug
Store for a glass of soda and, while drinking it, watched the Gulf of
Mexico passing thousands of feet below!

The camp had a new and mild sensation the next day. The newspapers
arriving in the morning’s mail stated that the Mexican Ambassador at
Washington had informed the State Department that thereafter United
States aviators flying over Mexican territory would be fired on. For
some reason the news appeared to be most cheering and inspiring. One
might have thought that it was bouquets instead of bullets that the
Mexican Government proposed to present to the American flyers!

“That’ll settle it,” declared Felton, one of Jack’s brother operators.
“Just let ’em try that trick and we’ll be on top of ’em like a ton of
bricks, Sterling. That’ll mean war, old son!”

“Aw, forget it,” said Boyd, the marine officer, whose acquaintance Jack
had made a few days before. “This country won’t mind a little thing
like that! Why, say, ain’t we been letting them shoot us up for years
without doing more than shaking our finger at ’em? ‘Naughty! Naughty!’
says the War Department. ‘If you don’t stop killing us we won’t let
any more guns and ammunition cross the border.’ Besides, a fat chance
those Mexican soldiers, specially the federal troops, have of hitting
one of our planes! In the first place they can’t shoot for nuts, and if
they could all we’ve got to do is stay up out of range. No, sir, it’ll
take more’n that to get Uncle Sam’s dander up. What I’m looking for is
for some of those greasers to make a mistake and bother one of those
English or French boats down at Tampico. Then we’ll see something!”

“A Mexican I talked with on the train, coming down here,” said Jack,
“seemed to think that his president was just looking for a way to back
down, and that there wasn’t really any possibility of real trouble.”

“Maybe there wouldn’t be if his president was president of anything
outside the City of Mexico,” jeered Boyd. “But when you get over in
Lower California and find another guy calling himself president and
this Tito Roza, down in Coahuila, calling _himself_ president, and
two or three others having the same bug, why, say, most anything can
happen: and I’ll say it’s going to!”

“Who is this Tito Roza I’ve been hearing so much about?” asked Jack.

“General Tito Roza,” explained Felton. “Some boy, from all accounts.
Unlike our old friend Villa, he’s no rough-neck. They say he studied
at Chapultepec――that’s the Mexican West Point, you know――and then in
Paris, and when he came back the president made him a colonel. Then,
when the big war came, he volunteered in the French army and got a
lieutenancy and was a pretty fair scrapper, I guess. After the war was
over I suppose he found life pretty tame and so he started a revolution
over in Coahuila.”

“No one would mind his revoluting till the cows come home,” growled
Boyd, “if he wouldn’t make trouble along the border. He thinks if he
can get the United States and Mexico in a scrap he’ll be able to
grab the presidency, I guess. Anyhow, he’s doing his best to start
something. All the raids in the Big Bend country are his doing,
although when they catch any of the poor boobs he has fighting for him
they swear they’re Federalists. He’s a slick guy, all right! They say
he’s got a bigger army right now than that poor nut of a president has,
but I don’t know if it’s so.”

“Is he really a general?” Jack asked.

“Sure he is! Why not? If you happen to be president you can promote
yourself to be anything you like, can’t you?”

“I see. Roza’s just as much a general as he is a president.”

“I’ll say he’s a heap more,” replied Boyd stoutly. “Any guy who has the
price of a handful of soldiers can be president of Mexico, but Tito
Roza’s a sure-enough soldier. And long after this slippery president
has crawled into his shell and stopped worrying us we’ll be having
words with Roza, unless he manages to get himself elected king or
president or something before that. That’s all he’s after, I guess.”

“They say,” said Felton, “that he only pays his army half wages with
the understanding that they’re to help themselves to anything they take
a fancy to when they invade Houston and Austin and Fort Worth. And the
poor boobs believe him. Why, they think they’ll be quartered in the
Waldorf-Astoria by Christmas! That Roza must be some talker!”

“He isn’t much to look at,” snorted Boyd. “I saw his picture in a
magazine awhile back. Sort of a handsome guy, and pleasant as a May
morning, but no bigger’n a peanut shell. He had the Croix de Guerre on
his cigarette pocket, though. Sometimes those little chaps are pretty
good scrappers. I remember a guy we had with us on the other side――――”

Whereupon Boyd became reminiscent, and Jack, pleading mythical duties,
stole off. With a half-hour of idleness on his hands, he made his way
to the balloon sheds. Long before he reached them he heard the hum of
engines, and by the time he was in front of the first great building
the noise was almost deafening. The big doors of the _F 8’s_ shed
were wide open and within, in the half-gloom, the giant cylinder of
the dirigible loomed vast and portentous. The sunlight from the roof
windows fell on the red, white and blue rings that circled the nose of
the big bag, and, farther astern, picked out the great black symbols
_F 8_. As Jack looked it seemed that the dirigible trembled and swayed
as though seeking to be free of the cables holding it there, and in a
moment he found the reason. Midway of the long shed the twin engines
were whirring and throbbing, now slowing to a deep drone and now racing
madly until they fairly shrieked. Even fifty feet from the doors the
sound assailed the ears unpleasantly. The vibration was carrying itself
to every part of the ship.

It was evident that the _F 8_ was being tuned up, but whether for an
immediate trial remained to be seen. Jack hoped they would pull her out
where he could have a good close look at her before he had to hurry
back to barracks. At least a half-hundred men were busied in the big
shed, some swarming about the envelope, others clustered around the
suspended car, more yet at work on the ground. A confusion of guys,
pipes, wires, of steel drums and torpedo-like cylinders, stretched
beneath the balloon, and there, where the great bulk cast its enormous
shadow, electric lights glowed wanly, and in the half-darkness forms
moved briskly at their tasks. The doors of other sheds were open
to-day, but only about the _F 8_ were there signs of real activity, and
Jack soon returned to where he could see the long dirigible stretching
back into the alternate gloom and sunlight of the building. The engines
were stilled now and the sounds that came to him were those of hammer
and saw and of whirring lathe and of many voices. A form detached
itself from the twilight under the big bag and came toward the open
front of the shed. It wasn’t many moments before it approached so near
that Jack was able to recognize it as that of the ensign encountered on
the train. The ensign, for that matter, might have passed unrecognized
by his own mother had he kept out of the strong light, for he was
in a very unmilitary attire of overalls and jumper and his face and
hands were far from immaculate. He saw Jack at the moment the latter
recognized him, abruptly changed his course and came out across the
trampled ground.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, quite to Jack’s surprise, as though he was
pleased to death by the meeting. “How’s everything?”

“How are you?” responded Jack. Under the other’s smile and apparent
friendliness he failed to make his greeting sound as distant as he
meant to. “All right, thanks.”

“Been assigned yet?” went on the other, viewing Jack interestedly.

“No. I suppose you have.” He gestured toward the cavernous opening. The
other nodded, turning and letting his gaze roam upward toward the great
silver bag.

“Some bird, eh?” he asked. “Gee, they had all twelve cylinders working
awhile ago, and I thought my ear-drums were a total loss! Passed
instruction yet?”

“To-morrow, I think. I hope――――” Jack paused abruptly. What he hoped
was no affair of this fellow’s, and he wondered why he had started to
tell it.

“Of course you do. And I guess you will. Had much air work?”

“None at all,” owned Jack unwillingly.

“Gee! How’d you manage to get down here then?”

“I didn’t manage it,” said Jack stiffly. “I was ordered here.”

“That’s funny. Guess they meant to send you to Pensacola and got mixed.
I just came from there. It’s a regular mob. How would you like the
balloon service?”

“I think I’d like it mighty well. I was wondering if I could put in a
word to the luff.”

“It’s the life, believe me,” replied the ensign gayly. “By the way,
what’s your name? Mine’s Clode.”

“Sterling.”

“Sounds genuine,” laughed the other. “I might hear of something and tip
you off, Sterling. Are you in B Barracks? Right-o! Seen anything more
of our little Mexican friend on the train?”

“No.” Jack, recalling the incident, answered shortly. Ensign Clode’s
brown eyes twinkled.

“He was a cute little shrimp, wasn’t he? Well, say, if I can help you
to a dirigible job, Sterling, I’ll be glad to. So long and good luck!”

The young officer nodded, smiled and hurried on his delayed errand,
and Jack, glancing at his watch, followed more leisurely. Clode, he
reflected, maybe wasn’t such a bad sort, after all. At least, he had
certainly tried to be civil to-day. As for his being able to help him,
Jack, to a dirigible assignment, why, that was, of course, just a bit
of swank. Jack guessed that if he succeeded in getting on a dirigible
instead of one of those nerve-trying seaplanes it would be a matter of
luck and not due to any good offices of young Mr. Clode! Maybe, though,
it wouldn’t be a bad plan to see the luff and let that gentleman know
of his preference.

But Jack didn’t have a chance to do that, for the rest of the day was
taken up with duties, and then the next morning the order came: “Ensign
Sterling, report to Commanding Officer, Balloon Corps Headquarters.”

CHAPTER V

ABOARD THE “FATE”

“You’re a lucky kid,” said Felton when they were at mess. There was
more than a suspicion of envy in his tone. “The Balloon Service is a
cinch. You only go up once a week, and then you don’t stay up more’n
ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes!” echoed Jack incredulously.

“Sure; things go wrong by that time,” answered Felton, with a grin,
“and you come floating down on top of something. It’s hard on what you
land on, but you don’t mind it. All you have to do is sit tight in your
little cockpit and admire the view.”

“Sounds all right,” laughed Jack, “but how about the time one of the
dirigibles landed on a building and went plumb through it?”

“Well, no one was hurt――much. Say, if you hear of a chance for me,
put me wise, will you? I like excitement and all that, of course, but
flying around over the Mexican lines being potted at isn’t just my idea
of a perfect pastime!”

“But if the Mex can’t shoot straight――――”

“That’s all right,” replied Felton pathetically, “but suppose there are
two planes and the Mex aims at the other one? Pretty sure to get you
then. When I get bumped off I want to have a gun in my hand and get
action, Sterling!”

Boyd shook hands gravely. “Good luck, kid,” he said. “Hope I’ll see you
again some time, but it ain’t likely, I guess.”

“You talk as if I was headed straight for the morgue,” objected Jack.
“Folks do go up in balloons and come back safe now and then, don’t
they?”

“Yeah, but that’s just trial spins, son. I hear they’re going to send
some of those blimps across the border pretty quick. Still and all, you
may be able to foot it back somehow. If I was you I’d get me a map of
Mexico and carry it next my skin. Know any Spanish?”

“No. Is the map in Spanish?”

“Well, it would be handy to know enough to ask your way, Sterling.
Maybe, though, you’ll land in the Gulf or out in the Pacific, and then
Spanish wouldn’t help you much. Well, I sure wish you the best o’ luck,
kid.”

“Same to you, you old mourner,” laughed Jack.

Over at Headquarters an officer wearing the Balloon Corps insignia on
his sleeve scowled and rummaged his papers and at last sent Jack to
Number 6 Shed. “Report to Lieutenant Commander Weeks, sir,” he said.
“Where’s your stuff?”

“B Barracks.”

“Shift it over here to balloon quarters. And, say, what about
instruction? Been passed?”

“Not yet. They said I’d get through to-day, though.”

“Well, you can’t berth here until you have. You’d better ask about
that. Some one’s slipped a cog, it seems.” He frowned darkly at Jack.
“Better talk to the lieutenant commander. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Most
anything goes these days!” The officer sighed resignedly.

“Number 6 Shed is where the _F 8_ is, isn’t it?” asked Jack eagerly.

“Yes, if that’s any comfort to you,” replied the other pessimistically.

It took Jack rather less than a minute to reach the balloon shed, and
another minute to convince the guard before the great doorway that
he should be allowed inside. He had so frequently stood about on the
outside that the guard recognized him this morning and was at first
incredulous. But he finally got past and made his way exultantly into
the depths of the big building. Things were more quiet around the _F
8_ to-day, although a few riggers and groundmen were still busy. Jack
stopped more than once to look up at the swelling bulk of the airship
well overhead. Viewed from beneath, it was tremendously impressive.
About midway of the envelope hung the gondola, or, as it was generally
called, “boat,” and as Jack approached it he saw that several officers
were grouped near its forward end. A quick survey showed him that none
wore the insignia of a lieutenant commander, and as a short, thick-set
man was the first to note his presence Jack addressed him.

“I was ordered to report to Lieutenant Commander Weeks,” he explained.
“Can you tell me where I can find him?”

“The Commander’s over at the quarters, I think. I say, Gandell, here’s
a gentleman asking for Mr. Weeks.”

“Weeks? Not here.” A junior lieutenant whose deep voice matched his big
frame turned an appraising look on Jack. “I don’t know where you’ll
find him right now. Are you the new radio chap?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine! What’s the name?”

“Sterling.”

“Well, Mr. Sterling, meet Mr. Jordan and Mr. Traine. My name’s Gandell.
Mr. Clode, who you’ll work with, isn’t here just now.”

Jack shook hands. Mr. Jordan, who later proved to be engineer officer,
was the one Jack had first spoken to. He was short of stature, broad
of shoulder and hip, had a round, leather-hued face and seemed a most
good-natured and jovial sort. He held the rank of lieutenant, junior
grade, as did Mr. Gandell. The third of the trio, Lieutenant Traine,
was a small, nervous-mannered man of hardly more than twenty-three
or four. For that matter, only Lieutenant Jordan appeared to be over
that age, and Jack doubted that he had more than reached thirty. They
shook hands heartily and seemed flatteringly delighted to make Jack’s
acquaintance. Indeed, from Lieutenant Gandell’s manner the boy might
have concluded that his assignment to the _F 8_ was the one thing
completing the lieutenant’s happiness!

“Been aboard the _Fate_ yet?” asked the latter.

“The――Oh, the _F 8_. No, I’ve never been on any sort of a dirigible.”

“Trained with the planes, eh? Well, you’ll soon pick up balloon stuff.”

“I haven’t had any air experience at all,” owned Jack ruefully.

“You haven’t? Well, what do you know about that? Get it, Sam?”

“Yes,” answered Lieutenant Jordan. “What’s the diff, though? He doesn’t
have to fly the thing. I hear they’re sending a lot of chaps over from
Pensacola who don’t know a wing strut from a drift indicator, begging
your pardon, Mr. Sterling. As long as you know radio――――”

“Sure,” interrupted Lieutenant Traine. “Every man to his trade, what?
Dare say Mr. Sterling knows more about electricity than you do about
engines, Sam.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t had experience,” said Jack apologetically. “I
suppose flying’s sort of strange at first.”

“Don’t let it bother you, old man,” replied Lieutenant Gandell. “This
old girl’s as steady as a parlor floor and you won’t know you’re up
till you look over the side. Here’s Mr. Clode now. You tie up to him
and get him to show you the ropes. By the way, we’re going up this
afternoon for an engine test if the wind doesn’t object. Mr. Clode,
here’s your new mate. Shake hands with Mr. Sterling.”

“We’ve met before, Mr. Gandell. How are you, Sterling? Glad to see you
here. Will it be all right to show him around, Mr. Traine?”

“Yes, yes, surely. Says he’s never been up yet. Better give him an
idea of things, what?”

“How’s the weather outside, Clode?” asked Lieutenant Jordan.

“Not a breath. Looks like we’ll make it, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, if they get that plane fixed up. Hope we can float by three. I’ll
see how they’re getting on back there.”

“Come on, Sterling,” said the ensign. “Meet the jolly old _Fate_!
There’s a ladder on the starboard side. Mind the new paint. The Old
Man’s mighty particular about his paint. I’ll go ahead and show the
way.”

A rough ladder made of joists and pieces of wood leaned against the
gondola, and up this the ensign climbed and Jack followed. In shape the
“boat” followed closely the lines of the big bag that loomed sixteen
feet above them. It was pointed at stem and stern and with its rounded
hull was not unlike a huge cigar in a gray wrapping. It was slightly
under fifty feet in length and was divided into four compartments, or
cockpits, connected with each other by a narrow fore-and-aft passage.
Standing in the engine cockpit, amidship, and looking ahead and astern
the likeness to a boat was at once apparent, although as a boat the
turtle-back construction would have suggested something novel and
freakish in the speed launch line. When, however, one viewed the
outboard engines, on platforms hung well away from the hull on each
side, the similarity to a boat was destroyed.

“Those are the new Enscott engines, vertical type,” explained
Ensign Clode knowingly. “Six cylinders, one-forty horsepower. Got a
contraption that takes the surplus hydrogen, mixes it with the right
amount of air and puts it back in the cylinders, saving gas. We made
sixty-two miles an hour the other day. Those are some engines, all
right!”

“They must be,” agreed Jack. “What are they stuck out there for,
though?”

“They’re air-cooled. Saves the weight of water, you see. Every pound
counts on a dirigible.”

The ensign explained the various controls in the cockpit, showing a
surprising familiarity with gas engines, at which Jack marveled. “I
understood from one of the officers that you were a radio man,” he said
laughingly, “but you talk as if you were the engineer.”

“Well, I’d like to be. I’ve always had a fondness for machinery and
engines and so on. I made Jordan tell me everything he knew the other
day. He’s the engineer officer, you know. I believe I could come pretty
close to running this thing if I had to. Poke your way up forward now.”

The bow cockpit was a diminutive place in the very nose of the hull.
Here, in what was known as the cockswain’s seat, was the post of the
directional pilot, Mr. Gandell, faced by a rounded and abruptly sloping
celluloid windshield and with instruments and controls disputing the
tiny space with him. It was his duty to keep the dirigible on its
path and to steer in a horizontal plane. The next cockpit, owing to
the widening of the “boat,” was more spacious. Here were seats for
commander and pilot. More instruments, an aërial sextant, compasses,
a drift indicator, and several other fascinating contrivances,
were arranged about them, while lockers for charts, books, flares,
binoculars and various other things took advantage of every inch of
space. This was the navigating station and from here, by means of
the different controls, the ship’s elevation was changed. The engine
cockpit came next, and abaft it were the big tanks of gasoline with a
total capacity of nearly six hundred gallons.

Jack learned that the _F 8_, speeded up to sixty miles an hour, had a
radius of approximately 2400 miles, and more with favoring winds; and
that under ideal conditions, alternating the engines at a thirty-mile
speed, she could stay aloft a hundred and ten hours.

Well toward the stern was the radio station, a roomy cockpit fitted
with both telegraph and telephone installations. Jack was acquainted
with each by this time, but the fact that this little space was to be
his post when on duty lent a new interest to the familiar instruments.
The “T” Antenna on the _F 8_ was stretched fore and aft inside the big
envelope overhead. The transmitter had a range of 600 miles and the
receiver of about 1100 miles. The radio telephone was, as the ensign
explained, good for four miles. The capacity ground wire was stretched
from the gondola to the rudder tail.

Back of the radio station a small companionway led downward into a
space some four feet high occupying most of the hull beneath the
cockpit floors. Here were four bunks for the use of the crew when off
duty, and here were the food supplies, drinking water tanks, cylinder
oil tanks and storage for extra parts, tools and so on. Two windows on
each side, covered with celluloid, admitted light and could be swung
open when desired. But, since they had to bend themselves almost double
to get around in the “hole,” the two didn’t remain there long.

Back in the radio cockpit, the ensign answered as best he could the
many questions that Jack’s mind had accumulated during the inspection.
The _F 8_ was one of twelve similar airships already constructed or in
course of construction. They were known as scout dirigibles, designed
for sustained flight at moderate speed and with low fuel consumption.
The construction was what was known as semi-rigid, the envelope being
distended by a skeleton framework of aluminum alloy. Inside the
envelope, distributed in pairs, were fourteen balloonets, or bags, of
goldbeater’s skin, having a total capacity of 120,000 cubic feet. These
held the helium gas that supplied the ship’s buoyancy.

“Great stuff, helium,” the ensign explained. “It’s non-inflammable,
you know. A couple of years ago, when these things were filled with
hydrogen, you had heart disease every time you ran into a thunder
storm, they say. If lightning happened to hit the bag, you――well,
you just got out and walked! Or you stuck around and got burned to a
cinder. You took your choice. And there was always danger from sparks
from the engine exhaust and from expansion from sun rays and a dozen
other things. But helium pays no attention to all that. You can walk
right up to a helium tank and flick a match at it and it won’t bite
you. Won’t even growl! The discovery of helium, or, anyway, of the
possibility of producing it in quantity, was one of the big things this
country did in the late war. And it was some little contribution to the
cause of Peace, believe me! It made balloons safe against gunfire, and
if the war had kept up a while longer we’d have shown the Huns a few
new tricks in plain and fancy Zeppelining that would have opened their
eyes!”

The envelope was 236 feet in length from nose to tail, with a greatest
diameter of 33 feet. The fabric, rubberized silk, was laid in three
layers and painted outside with a composition designed to prevent
disintegration by actinic rays. It was this paint that gave the silvery
appearance to the balloon.

Various devices which had escaped Jack’s notice at first now became
evident: the complete lighting system, including a good-sized
searchlight which, hung outboard, could be deflected straight downward
when desired, with running lights as aboard ship; red and green on
the sides and a red light at the tail; the ingenious contrivance
for cooking by means of the engine exhaust heat, as well as by an
electric stove; the sand-bags hanging along the side of the navigating
station; the provision at the bow for mounting a rapid-fire rifle; the
bomb-dropping device; the elaborate system of speaking tubes connecting
all parts of the boat; the controls from hull to envelope that governed
the valves of the gas bags; the long cables stretching back to rudder
and planes; the big two-blade propeller. His wonder and admiration grew
constantly, and the young ensign, already in love with the _Fate_, and
as proud of her as though he had built every inch of her himself, noted
it approvingly.

“Isn’t she some ship?” he asked.

“She’s a wonder!” declared Jack. “She’s so――so complete, too! Why, I
had no idea a dirigible was like this. I thought it was just a big
gas bag and a――a sort of place to stand in; I mean before I came down
here. But you can sleep and eat and cook and everything in this thing!
Wouldn’t I like to command one!”

“So would I,” agreed Clode. “Maybe some day――――” He broke off to stare
thoughtfully at the sunlit picture framed by the open end of the big
hangar. After a long moment he added, almost apologetically: “Ever
since I first climbed aboard the old girl I’ve had a sort of hunch
that――oh, well, that’s just piffle, I guess.” He laughed lightly. “Had
enough for now? Let’s get out, then.”

Later, the ensign’s words seemed to them to have been strangely
prophetic.

CHAPTER VI

“CAST OFF!”

Lieutenant Commander Weeks compared his watch with the chronometer
before him in the cockpit. He was a tall, lithe, quiet-mannered man of
perhaps twenty-seven. His lean, clean-shaven face was almost boyish
and undeniably good-looking. Very calm gray eyes, that in conversation
seldom wavered for an instant from the eyes of those with whom he
talked, a straight, determined mouth and a somewhat square chin were
the notable features. He spoke as quietly as he moved, but Jack had
noticed that no one else about the shed obtained such instant and eager
obedience. “Six-fourteen,” he said, turning to Lieutenant Traine. The
latter, leaning outboard of the cockpit, nodded.

“I think he’s coming now,” he answered.

A young sailor in dungarees was hurrying toward the _F 8_, some papers
fluttering in his hand as he came. “Captain Rounce’s compliments, sir,
and he regrets delay and wishes you good luck,” said the messenger
as, from the first rung of the rope ladder that hung over the side, he
stretched an arm upward with the papers outheld.

“Our compliments to the captain,” returned the commander of the _F
8_, “and our thanks.” The messenger saluted and drew aside. “Anything
important, Ben?” Mr. Weeks added.

“Light winds in upper altitudes from southeast, varying eight to
twenty. No, nothing important.” The pilot read the brief reports
quickly and stuffed the sheets into a pocket of his leather jacket.
“Slight disturbance over Caribbean. Let’s go!”

“Right. Ready, Mr. Jordan?”

“All ready, sir.”

“Port her nose a bit!” The commander issued the direction through a
small megaphone. In obedience the groundmen clinging to the forward guy
ropes moved slowly to the right and the long body of the airship swung
in answer until the level rays of the sun came straight into the faces
of the crew. “Steady! Hold her!” The shuffling crew stopped. Crews and
workers from other sheds had gathered to witness the _F 8’s_ departure,
and, although the time of the ascension had not been announced,
officers’ quarters and barracks had added their quota. The airship
had been trailed out of the shed an hour before and the engines
tuned. She was to have floated at six, but a delay in receiving the
weather reports had postponed the start. In the navigating cockpit
the commander jotted the time in the log-book, stowed it again in its
locker and looked forward and aft. Forward, the head and shoulders of
Lieutenant Gandell showed; aft, he looked into the alert, expectant
faces of Lieutenant Jordan and Engineer’s Mate Wason, the latter a
thick-set young giant of twenty-one or two, and, beyond them, the two
radio operators. Then he put the megaphone to his lips again. “All
clear, Mr. Ryan?” he asked.

“All clear, sir!” answered the petty officer in charge of the shed crew.

“Then you may cast off,” said the commander quietly.

“Let go all!” shouted the officer below.

Jack, his heart beating fast, held his breath. But nothing happened!
Or so it seemed to him until, of a sudden, the figures on the ground
became squat and foreshortened. The onlookers were cheering and waving.
Jack, suddenly tremendously excited, waved frantically back. Although
there was no perceptible motion in the boat, the yellowish ground
was sinking away beneath as though some unseen agency was pulling it
down. It was difficult to believe that the airship and not the earth
was moving. Now the rounded tops of the sheds were below them, the
long rows of barracks and the sun-dyed parade ground northward, and
the men down there were no more than pigmies! Jack drew a long, deep
breath of exultation. It was like nothing he had ever experienced or
dreamed of! He turned to Clode. That youth had seated himself and was
experimentally tapping a key. Jack laughed involuntarily, and the
ensign looked questioningly over his shoulder.

“What?” he asked.

“I――I don’t know why I laughed,” said Jack happily. “Yes, I do, though.
I was just thinking that you were an awful bluff, pretending that you
aren’t thrilled and excited. Of course, you’ve been up before, but I
don’t believe any fellow can really ever get as indifferent as you
look!”

Clode laughed a trifle sheepishly. “Guess you’re right, Sterling,” he
answered. “I was sort of bluffing, that’s a fact.” He got up and looked
back along the shadow of the balloon. “By jiminy, that’s a wonderful
sight, isn’t it?”

Behind them the waters of the Gulf lay golden and glittering in the
radiance of the westering sun. The gray destroyers looked like slender
chips in the molten magic and the wheeling seaplanes like tiny birds.
Far away, the rim of the sea curved like the edge of a great bowl.

“How high are we?” asked Jack in awed tones.

“Search me! Maybe a thousand, maybe more. She’ll go up fairly high
before she finds her equilibrium on account of the warmth of the lower
air. We’re drifting north a bit.”

“Why? There’s no breeze,” said Jack.

“Isn’t there? Watch the little whirligig thing in front of the pilot.
See it go around? We don’t notice it because we’re traveling right
along with it. Look down now. Recognize any of your friends?”

Jack looked as straight toward earth as the curving deck of the hull
would allow. Winding yellow streaks, oblongs and squares of green,
little slate-hued blocks met his sight. The world was like a map and
nothing else. The darker spots, purplish-blue in the yellow-tinged
expanse, were shadows. The long streak running back along the coast
was the railway. Miles to the north and west a range of low hills were
distinct enough but had no suggestion of height. Everything beneath
looked as flat as a checker-board.

“Gee!” breathed Jack. “I――I guess I’m getting sort of scared, Clode!
Suppose we couldn’t get back there!”

“What of it?” laughed the other. “Isn’t this all right?”

“Yes,” replied Jack dubiously, “but――――”

A bell tinkled in the compartment ahead and looking across he saw
Lieutenant Jordan move to the controls. The commander turned and
spoke, and in the silence, a silence that was broken only by the faint
creaking of stays and cables, his words came back distinctly to the
after cockpit. “Nineteen hundred and fifty, Mr. Jordan,” announced the
commander casually. “When you’re ready we’ll start.”

“All ready, sir.” The lieutenant spoke to his mate and threw a switch
in front of him. “Port engine, Danny! Let her go!” There was an instant
of buzzing and then a sudden hum in the engine at the right of the
hull. Underfoot, the shaft came to life, and, astern, the big propeller
whirred slowly. A breeze played against Jack’s face. For the first time
since leaving the ground he experienced the sensation of movement.
Wason, a long-nosed oil-can in hand, was busy as the engine’s hum
deepened to a sound like the droning of a million bees. Mingled with
it was a higher-toned, more strident note, the clattering of rods. Now
a fresh breeze blew along the boat and the _Fate_, swinging her great
bluntly-pointed nose toward the west, moved majestically forward. A few
minutes later Clode drew Jack’s attention to a winding ribbon toward
which the ship was flying.

“That’s the Rio,” he said. “Wonder if we’ll cross it. When we do we’re
in Mexico and a target for those bullets of theirs.”

“They’d never hit us at this height,” said Jack untroubledly. “Do you
know where we’re going?”

“Well, Mr. Weeks didn’t show me the orders,” laughed the ensign, “but I
guess we’re aiming for the State of Coahuila over yonder. Fancy the War
Department wants to know what Señor Roza’s outfit looks like and where
he’s keeping it. Also what he intends doing with it. I dare say you’ve
heard that he means to capture Chicago and New York and a few little
towns like those. He must be a nut, for fair!”

“How far is Coahuila?”

“About three hundred miles, I think, if we fly direct. But we may
follow the river up to somewhere about Eagle Pass and then slip over.
It’ll be dark then and we could get pretty well south before we were
spotted. I suppose that, considering we’re not at war with Mexico――yet,
we haven’t any real right to fly over the country.”

“Seems to me when this Roza fellow is acting up like he is we’ve got
a right to fly over _his_ part of the country, anyway,” said Jack,
stoutly.

“Maybe that’s so. I guess we’re going to keep along the Rio. Mr.
Gandell’s bringing her around a bit.”

“How long will it take to do three hundred miles?”

“Depends on the speed, of course. We’re doing about twenty-five or
thirty now, I guess. If we open up with both engines and give her a
full throttle we can do better than sixty. As we’re going now we ought
to be about Eagle Pass, if that’s where we’re headed for, by three in
the morning. But it’s my guess that the Old Man will fix it so that
we’ll be well into Coahuila by sunrise.”

“And that’s Mexico, just the other side of the river,” mused Jack. “It
doesn’t look much different from Texas, does it?”

“Why should it?” laughed Clode. “They were made the same day! Guess
I’ll see if I can get the Brazos Station.” He seated himself at the
bench, threw his switch and began to hammer. After a moment he turned
a grinning face toward his companion. “Pensacola’s trying to get the
_Monticello_, and is all stewed up. Here we are!” The ensign tapped
busily a moment and the sparks crackled. “Hello!” He reached for his
pad and his pencil flew. Then he flashed “O. K.,” wrested the receiver
from his head and jumped to his feet.

“What’s up?” asked Jack eagerly.

“Get busy!” Clode indicated the instrument. “Brazos reports a cyclone
headed this way. Says southern New Mexico towns are getting it heavy.”
He hurried forward with his message as Jack quickly adjusted the
receiver. Camp Stanton was already calling: “Weeks Commander _F 8_
cyclone central at Silver City NM six twelve traveling east southeast
report your course Thomas R. A.”

“O. K.” Jack thrust the scribbled message toward Clode, who was back at
his side, and the latter read it quickly.

“Take it forward,” he said, motioning. Jack pulled the receiver off and
Clode took his place. As Jack started along the passage he noted that
the ship was already on a new course. The western sky, saffron yellow
above the horizon, lay to port. Stepping up over the gasoline tanks
between rear and engine cockpits his ears were assailed by a thunderous
drumming, and he realized that both engines were at work. The wind tore
at his cap and he had to hold it on for the instant that he stood there
atop the tank. Then he was back under cover and had crossed the engine
space and was handing the message to the commander.

Mr. Weeks and Mr. Traine leaned over it together. Then: “Just a minute,
Sterling,” said the former, and wrote rapidly on his pad. “Thomas, R.
A., Stanton. Sailing south, southwest one-half west from Colombres
six forty-two. Storm not sighted. Will go up if necessary. Weeks,
Commander.”

A few minutes later Camp Stanton again spoke: “Path of storm reported
varying half to one and half miles height unknown bearing southeast at
Sierra Blanca advise taking more westerly course.”

Mr. Weeks whistled when he read that. “Looks like it was on our trail,
Ben,” he said. “Funny the sky doesn’t show it. Hold on, though! Sort of
dirty-looking back there, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Mr. Traine looked and nodded. “And the barometer’s showing it
now. I rather wish we’d had this before dark.”

“Been simpler, yes. Guess we’ll begin to work up.” He picked up a
speaking tube. “Pete! The blamed thing’s chasing us. I think we’ll be
safer at ten thousand. How are your controls working? Good! What do you
read? Three-four――six――point――O is right. Sterling’s bringing you the
last message from Thomas.”

Jack crowded between the two occupants of the navigating cockpit and
put the paper in the hand of the directional pilot. Up there behind
the wind-shield it was quite still. Mr. Gandell took his eyes from the
message and grinned back over his shoulder at Jack.

“Looks like it was going to breeze up, Mr. Sterling,” he chuckled.
“Ever been up in a dirigible in a cyclone before?”

Jack smiled as he shook his head, but the smile could not have been
called a happy one. The lieutenant handed back the paper. “Well, don’t
worry, son,” he said kindly. “We’re going up where tornadoes won’t
bother us, I guess. Anyhow, if we do have to run, there’s plenty of
room up here!”

Back in the after cockpit Jack observed Clode anxiously as the latter,
drumming idly with his pencil on the little bench, listened. Below, the
world was dark and mysterious, but up where the _F 8_ sailed the last
dying rays of light still shone. It was a strange twilight, unlike any
Jack had ever seen. Above him the rounded belly of the big envelope was
steely-gray where the afterglow touched it, darkening to purple-black
where the shadows lay. Eastward a faded half-moon lay far down near the
horizon. Even as he looked the moon went from sight, he was conscious
of a chillier feeling and realized that the ship was passing up through
a cloud. The side of the cockpit where his hand rested became damp
under his fingers. For some minutes the engines had been throttled down
to a lazy tune and he knew that overhead, inside the silken envelope,
gas was expanding in the many bags. That cloud brought him a fuller
realization of height and something very much like fear came to him.
Ten thousand feet! Why, that was nearly two miles! Suppose something
happened! A squirmy feeling developed in the pit of his stomach and he
gazed with horror into the surrounding blackness. Night had come on
them and the running lights were agleam, and, ahead, the forms of the
men were visible in the glows from the cockpit lamps. Somehow, those
lights brought comfort. He wished that Clode would switch on the lamp
above the bench. And at that moment Clode did so, and turned to shake
his head boredly at Jack.

“Not a sound for five minutes,” he said. “Thought I heard Arlington
once, but I’m not sure.”

He relapsed into silence again. He didn’t seem greatly concerned,
Jack reflected. But then he had had air training at Pensacola and
had been up in the _F 8_ twice before, whereas this was Jack’s first
experience. Yesterday he had been done out of the trial spin by the
necessity of securing his instruction certificate. Later he had heard
about it from the ensign and had listened to enthusiastic praise of the
Enscott engines, of the ship itself and of the personnel, for Clode
had sought him out in his new quarters and been very friendly to him
all evening. He had reversed his opinion of the ensign now and was
beginning to like him thoroughly; which, he reflected, was fortunate
considering that they were to be thrown together in that tiny cockpit
for awhile. A bell tinkled in the engine station and almost at once
the engines roared again. The wind tore past and Jack turned up the
high collar of his coat. Far away the dejected-looking moon sailed
into sight once more and its wan rays lighted a fleecy bank of cloud
miles off to starboard. The sight was very beautiful, and for no reason
that he could explain Jack’s uneasiness disappeared and a feeling of
triumph took its place. Two miles above the earth, sailing steadily
through space, with lights about him and an appealing odor of coffee
blowing back from the engine cockpit! It made that chap, Jules Verne,
a veritable piker, thought Jack! As for danger, why, one was always in
the way of that. At all events, he assured himself with a smile, he was
safe from automobiles!

The voice of Engineer’s Mate Wason interrupted his reflections. Wason
had a voice like a young fog-horn, and now it traveled the length of
the boat in spite of the wind. “Coffee’s ready!” bawled Wason.

Jack brought his mug and Clode’s, and the four sandwiches apportioned
to them, and nothing ever tasted better. Clode slipped the receiver off
while he ate, clapping one ear-piece back at intervals.

“This is certainly the life, Sterling!” he declared, stretching
luxuriously. “By the way, what’s your other name, old man? Jack, isn’t
it? Thought so. Well, you’ll be Jack after this. Sterling’s too much
of a mouthful. Sounds too――too precious, too. ‘Nine-twenty-five one
thousandths fine,’ you know, and that sort of thing. And my name’s
Hugh, if you care to know it. So here’s to us, Jack, and to the good
old _Fate_! More power to us all!” And Hugh Clode raised his aluminum
cup, touched Jack’s with it laughingly and drank deep. And the next
instant he was sprawling on the cockpit floor, for the boat had swayed
wildly. Jack saved himself by seizing the edge of the bench. Again the
boat plunged and tilted and a gust of cold air tore past. Voices, sharp
and imperative, from ahead, the jangle of the bell in the next cockpit,
the whistling of the wind past cables and guys and then a sickening
swoop as the great airship, seized in the grasp of a mighty wind, swung
from her course! Jack, clinging desperately, his heart in his throat,
knew what had happened. The cyclone had caught them after all!

CHAPTER VII

AT THE MERCY OF THE STORM

Hugh Clode, his expression in the dim light one of utter surprise,
struggled to his feet. “Wh――what happened?” he gasped. But knowledge
came to him before Jack could answer. Above them the big bag was
lurching and swaying, the air that drove past was like a breath from
the frozen north and the dark space about them was a wild confusion.
The summons of the tube roused Hugh from the realization of disaster.
It was the commander speaking, and his voice was as calm and steady as
ever.

“All right there, Mr. Clode?”

“All right, sir,” answered Hugh.

“Good! We’re trying to get above this, and I think we shall. See that
everything is secure, please. You understand unlashing the parachutes?”

“Yes, sir.” Hugh’s heart sank, but Mr. Weeks’ next words were
reassuring.

“You’re not likely to need them, but it’s well to be prepared. Report
anything wrong. Keep well down in the boat.”

The ship was riding easier now. The last of the sand-bags had been
dropped and it might be that they had passed up above the worst of the
storm. But they were still being blown through the air at a terrific
pace, and now and then the boat lurched fearsomely. One engine only was
in use and that was slowed down to a speed only sufficient to keep the
ship’s tail to the wind. To fight that gale would have been a hopeless
task. Looking forward in the darkness that was relieved at intervals by
the glow of the cockpit lights, Jack could see here and there the shape
of a head and crouching shoulders. Occasionally a voice came to him, a
fragment of speech. Once Lieutenant Jordan leaned across the space from
the station ahead.

“See if you can get me Connell’s Café in San Antone, Mr. Clode, and
order me a steak and onions. Tell ’em I’m likely to get there in about
half an hour!”

“Are we headed that way?” asked Hugh.

“I don’t know where we’re headed, my son. As the boy said when they
asked him where he was going, ‘Don’t ask me, ask the calf!’ Ask this
blinkin’ tornado where we’re headed! If we don’t get to San Antone
we’re likely to fetch up somewhere out in the South Atlantic pond, I
guess!”

“How high are we, Mr. Jordan?” asked Jack.

“About eleven thousand, five hundred. Guess we’re out of the worst of
it, anyway. If we can stay here we’ll be all right, but the bags won’t
stay fat forever in this temperature. Well, enjoy yourselves.” Mr.
Jordan disappeared again, and Jack asked:

“What did he mean about the bags not keeping fat?”

“Gas balloonets,” answered Hugh thoughtfully. “You see, cold causes
contraction of the gas. Up to a point we can flow gas from the storage
tank into the balloonets, but when that’s exhausted we’re through
and we can only overcome the contraction and keep our buoyancy by
lightening ship. That means dropping sand-bags――we’ve already done
that――getting rid of gasoline, water, oil and so on or heaving over
every blamed thing we can do without. Just now the temperature up here
must be mighty near freezing, and that means that it’s only a question
of time when the balloonets will begin to crumple. But maybe we’ll get
out of the storm by then.”

“We’re a lot steadier now than we were awhile back,” observed Jack
hopefully.

“You’re right. I’d say we were driving along on a pretty even keel
now. Guess that means that we’re well into the second atmospheric
layer. If we can stay there, as Mr. Jordan says, we’re all hunky.”

“How many atmospheric layers, as you call them, are there?”

“Three. The lower one, next the earth, is about two miles deep; three
kilometers, to be exact. That’s where you find your storms; rain
clouds, lightning, thunder, wind gusts of all sorts and irregular
temperatures. Then comes the middle layer, where we are. That’s
over four miles deep, from around ten thousand feet to twenty-three
thousand. Things like tornadoes and cyclones don’t usually get that
high. You get cold, sweeping winds up here, and frigid temperatures,
and the higher you go the colder it is, old son. What they call the
cirrus clouds live up here, sort of on the roof of this layer. Above
them begins the upper layer, where the temperature is always about the
same, as far as any one knows yet.”

“Gee,” said Jack, awedly, “there’s a lot of――of space up here, isn’t
there?”

“You said it!”

“And what’s above the upper layer?”

“Search me! They call it the cosmic void, and I guess that means as
much to you as it does to me; or to the scientists themselves! No one’s
ever been up there yet. Or, if they have, they never got back to tell
about it!”

Jack thought it over for a moment. Then: “Suppose we sort of made a
mistake and got up there. What would happen?”

Hugh laughed. “Guess we’d stay there. But we couldn’t get there to save
our lives, Jack. The old ship can’t do more than fourteen thousand,
and the upper layer is still a good nine thousand above that. And just
where it stops being the upper layer and calls itself the cosmic void
no one knows. When they start off for the cosmic void, Jack, you’ll
find me staying at home with a toothache or something just as handy!”

“Me, too,” agreed the other heartily. “In fact, Hugh, I’m as high now
as I want to go, and I’d like it a heap better if I could look down and
see the United States of America!”

“If you could see anything it would more likely be the Gulf of Mexico,
I guess. We’ve been whirling along at about sixty or more, and if the
gale’s still blowing from the west, as it was when it struck us first,
we ought to be well out at sea.”

“Gosh!” muttered Jack. “Then if the wind keeps right on we’ll be around
the globe pretty soon and popping up over the other side again! What
would happen if we descended, Hugh?”

“We might get into the cyclone again, for one thing. I suppose that’s
why we’re staying up. This wind is pretty fierce, but it’s steady and
it’s better to be blown a few hundred miles out of our course than torn
to pieces. Say, if you want to turn in down there and get a snack of
sleep, go ahead.”

“Sleep!” exclaimed Jack. “Are you crazy?”

“Well, I just made the suggestion,” chuckled Hugh. “Personally, I
prefer to stay up here and see what’s doing. Not that there’s anything
to see,” he added, raising his head cautiously above the edge of the
turtle-back. “Nothing but blackness. No wind to speak of, though. That
means that we’re doing about the same as the gale is. I’ll bet we’re
traveling about as fast as either of us ever has traveled or ever will!
How are your feet? Mine are getting colder than ice.”

“Feet? Oh, they’re all right, I guess. A little bit coolish. It’s my
nerves that trouble me most!”

Hugh chuckled. “Mine aren’t any too easy, either. I wish we’d quit this
beastly joy-ride! Wonder if the mate would make some coffee. By Jove,
look at the time! It’s only nine-seven! I thought it must be nearly
morning. Hello, there goes the other engine! What do you suppose that’s
for? Bet you he’s trying to swing back into the wind. That would mean
that it isn’t so hard. Yes, we’re turning, Jack. Put your hand up.
Feel that? Guess the Old Man doesn’t fancy the Gulf. Don’t blame him. I
don’t fancy it myself much. If I have to float down on a parachute I’d
rather know that there was dry ground underfoot.”

“When it comes to jumping over with an umbrella,” said Jack resignedly,
“I’m just not there. I’ll stick by the ship when that time comes; even
if it means the cosmic void!”

“Wow! Feel that little zephyr,” exclaimed Hugh. “We’re bucking straight
into it now, and I’ll bet we aren’t even making headway! Just the same,
the old bird’s riding pretty steady!”

In the cockpit beyond, the mate was constantly on the move, his shadow
looming monstrously on the surface of the bag overhead as, crouching,
he drenched the bearings with oil from the long-nosed can. The stench
of the oil and grease came back to the boys in the station aft, drawn
by the rushing wind above. The engines roared loudly, desperately in
their battle. Rudder and plane controls were seldom still as the pilots
sought to keep the nose of the big dirigible straight into the teeth of
the gale. Jack, hunched in a corner, his eyes on the steady, comforting
little lamp above the instrument bench, the wild rush of the wind
and the clamor of the engines in his ears, was filled with a strange
mixture of emotions, anxiety, wonder and elation. He reflected that
it was an excellent thing for their peace of mind that his parents did
not know where he was at that moment! And he smiled a bit grimly at the
recollection of his apprehension lest he be assigned to a seaplane. No
seaplane, he thought, could ever make him turn a hair after to-night’s
experience! Now and then Hugh spoke, but for the most part they
crouched there in silence while the _Fate_ fought her losing battle
with the gale. For it was a losing battle from the first. No engines
made, no propeller turned, could have driven the _F 8_ against that
great rushing wind. The best they could do, in fact all the commander
hoped to do, was minimize their drift as much as possible. The _F 8_
was like a boat bucking the mighty current of a river, unable to make
headway, even drifting downstream, but yet going far slower than the
current. The cold began to get through the leather, wool-lined coat
that Jack wore, and he hugged himself tighter and longed for more of
that good hot coffee. Once he found himself nodding, and wondered that
he could feel sleepy under such conditions. But there was something
lulling in the steady roar of sound and after awhile his head fell over
on his shoulder and he slept.

When he awoke for good, for more than once he had half awakened only to
fall asleep again, a great change had taken place. The giant wind no
longer roared its way overhead, the blank darkness had given way to a
misty grayness that revealed the whole length of the boat, the strident
hum of the engines was gone and only the port engine murmured drowsily
and the intense cold was replaced by a milder chill that held the
dampness of a foggy day. It was Hugh who had awakened him, and at his
first bewildered look Jack caught the heartening aroma of coffee. There
was a cup of it within six inches of his nose and Hugh was laughing at
his sleepy perplexity.

“You’re some sleeper, Jack,” said the ensign. “Sorry to have to wake
you, but I’m all in and you’ll have to take a trick at the radio.”

“What time is it?” stammered Jack. “Where are we?”

“I can answer the first, but not the second. It’s a little after four,
but where we are is what we don’t know. About all we do know is that
we’re somewhere over the Gulf, at about two thousand feet elevation,
and that we’re in clouds. I’ve been trying to pick up some one, but
there isn’t a sound. Put that down and stick the ear-muffs on, like a
good chap. I’m going to turn in below for an hour or so. If you want
me, sing out.”

“I’m a cheeky dub to sleep like that,” Jack apologized. “I didn’t mean
to, Hugh. Have you been awake all night?”

“Sure, but I couldn’t have slept, anyhow, so don’t let that worry you.
Call me at six if I don’t wake up before. Better try Galveston, Jack.
I’ve been hammering at ’em for an hour. If you don’t fetch ’em, see
if you can pick up a ship. There ought to be some one around here. So
long.”

Jack ached in every stiff and chilled muscle as he took his place in
the seat. With the receiver strapped on, he began calling Galveston.
Not a sound came through the ether. Looking forward he saw a tired
but cheerful Mr. Jordan at the engine controls, the backs of the two
officers in the navigating cockpit, and, by craning his head a bit, the
motionless figure of Lieutenant Gandell far up in the bow. He wondered
if they had been on duty like that all the time he had slept, and
realizing that they had, felt ashamed of himself. The engineer’s mate
was not in the station, and Jack supposed he had turned in for rest.
The _F 8_ was sailing slowly through a world of gray twilight. Moisture
lay in drops on every surface and from where he sat the envelope
disappeared from sight well short of nose and tail. They were in a
cloud bank that minute after minute seemed to grow denser rather than
thinner.

Presently Mr. Weeks arose stiffly from his seat and came back to the
engine cockpit and, Jack judged, warmed his hands at the exhaust. He
was talking to Lieutenant Jordan, but the receivers that Jack wore
prevented him from hearing what was said. After a few minutes the
commander made his way to Jack’s side and leaned down. “Can you get
anything, Sterling?” he asked.

“No, sir, there isn’t a sound. I suppose our receiving apparatus is all
right. Nothing could have happened to it last night, do you think?”

“Clode looked the wires over and said they seemed O. K. Well, keep
trying. We figure that we’re about four hundred miles east of the
coast, somewhere around 25 north and 91 west, but it’s only guesswork.
We’re running due west and can’t be far wrong, but I’d feel easier if
I knew within a hundred miles where we really are. As long as these
clouds continue we can’t take an observation, you know. Report at once
if you pick up any one. They tell me you managed to get in a bit of
sleep.” The commander smiled.

“Yes, sir,” said Jack sheepishly. “I――I didn’t mean to, and it was a
rotten thing to do with every one else on the job.”

“Not a bit of it, Sterling. You weren’t needed and you might as well
have slept as stayed awake. Besides, it speaks mighty well for your
nerves!”

Jack looked rueful. “I’m glad something speaks well for them, sir:
they weren’t speaking very well for themselves!”

The commander laughed and went back to his station, and Jack hammered
on at his key. Once he thought he caught the faintest kind of a sound,
but was not certain. Mate Wason tramped past him, yawning widely, a
few minutes later, and began the preparation of breakfast. Jack ate
his with one hand while his other still thumped the key. Breakfast
consisted of baked beans and coffee, both steaming hot, and three
thick slices of bread and a pat of butter, and Jack told himself that
not until that moment had he ever known how good food could taste! He
was draining the last drops of his second tin of coffee when his ears
caught the crash of a distant thunderclap. He saw that the sound had
reached the navigating cockpit as well, for Lieutenant Traine raised
his head quickly and looked toward the northwest. A second long roll
of thunder came. The prospect of encountering an electrical storm was
not one to welcome, since, although there was no danger of an explosion
of the gas tanks, yet a two hundred foot dirigible makes a pretty fair
target and, with gasoline aboard, the chance of disaster is always
considerable. A moment later Jack felt a slight tipping of the boat and
knew that the dirigible was starting to seek high altitudes. For a
time the thunderstorm was forgotten, for his straining ears caught the
faint gasping of some far-off transmitter. It was the veriest phantom
of sound, a crackling so thin that he had to concentrate his every
effort to even sense it. At times he lost it entirely, and out of it he
got but one word, and of that was more than doubtful. The signature was
lost in a mighty crash of thunder that seemed to rip the whole heavens
apart, and Jack, half stunned, dashed the receiver from his ears. The
_F 8_, speeding faster now, was immersed in a gloom of dun clouds. What
wind was felt came only from the ship’s progress. Hugh Clode, alarm on
his countenance, crawled hurriedly up the narrow companion.

“Were we hit?” he demanded anxiously.

“I don’t think so.” Jack looked vaguely fore and aft. “I was trying to
get some one talking when a thousand guns went off in my ears. Gee!”

The gloom flared into white, blinding radiance. Afterwards Jack
recalled the vision photographed in that instant on his mind: a vast
space of tumbled clouds, gray, foamy-white, with the lightning glowing
through them and around them in wonderful, appalling magnificence:
but at the moment he could only close his eyes and gasp, for a great
crackling burst through the heavens, the ship plunged and such a crash
of thunder burst against their ears as no words could describe. Then
silence, and through it the voice of the commander, confident and
steady:

“Struck us, I think! Mr. Clode, can you see what the damage is astern?”

CHAPTER VIII

LOST IN THE CLOUDS

That bolt had, as it was speedily determined, worked mischief indeed.
Striking the tail of the _F 8_, it had ripped the vertical rudder away
and left it dangling, had put the starboard horizontal fin out of
commission and had torn the envelope fabric apart so that a flap of
it trailed down across the swaying rudder. Nor was that all, for when
Hugh, later, tried the radio apparatus he found it dead. The commander
accepted the misfortunes with untroubled countenance.

“Ought to be thankful we had helium up there instead of the old stuff,”
he said cheerfully. “There’s no damage done that we can’t repair
easily, once we’ve found a landing. How does she answer, Pete?”

“Badly,” replied Lieutenant Gandell from the forward cockpit. “She’s
dipping her tail and the rudder’s quite useless.”

“All we can do is pray for a wind that’ll take us back over the land,
what?” said Lieutenant Traine. “Want to put her up again, Bob?”

Mr. Weeks hesitated. “I’d like to be sure the lightning isn’t going
to take another crack at us,” he answered finally. “No, I guess we’ll
stick it out where we are. What do you think?”

“Might as well. Not much use in climbing if we can’t go high enough to
get out of this storm, and she won’t do better than six thousand, what?
Besides, if we’re going to find a landing we’d better be where we can
see in case the clouds break.”

The ship was no longer floating on “an even keel,” as the expression
was, for the damaged horizontal plane allowed the big cylinder to
settle slightly to starboard, and on occasions when a slight puff
of air stirred, to roll lazily. The lightning still played and the
thunder rolled, but the center of the electrical disturbance had moved
past them. The dun-hued clouds pressed about and increasing daylight
scarcely filtered through. The commander called Hugh forward and asked
whether the radio could be repaired, and seemed untroubled when the
ensign reported that he feared repairs impossible until a landing was
made.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Hugh. “I ought to have cut out when the storm
came.”

“Wouldn’t that have been difficult,” asked the commander, “considering
that you were in the ‘hole’? It was up to your assistant, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose it was,” owned Hugh unwillingly, “but Sterling’s a bit new
at the game, sir, and――――”

“I’m not criticizing him, Mr. Clode. He had orders to get into
communication with some one and was following orders when the storm
hit. I guess there wasn’t much time to cut out. Besides, if, as you
think, it’s the wires that are gone, that wouldn’t have helped much in
any case, would it?”

“No, sir, it wouldn’t. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can rig up some
sort of an antenna over the boat.”

“Very well, but don’t take any risks. As a matter of fact, there isn’t
much we can do but drift with the wind and look for a landing. And just
now there isn’t enough wind to blow out a match.”

“Are we moving toward land, sir?”

“Yes, so far. We’ll keep her going until a breeze comes along. After
that――well, it’ll depend where the breeze comes from!”

The storm gradually died away in the distance, and the _F 8_, with one
engine running, plowed along at a thirty-knot gait through a chill,
damp world of fog. At the bow, Mr. Gandell was in some mysterious
manner managing to keep her headed generally west. The wrecked rudder
served after its fashion to keep the ship’s nose steady, although the
big, gray bag rolled and dipped at times. Of visibility there was none.
For all Jack could have told the _F 8_ might have been three miles high
or only a hundred feet, while as for their location one man’s guess was
as good as another’s. Save that they were somewhere out over the Gulf
of Mexico, their whereabouts was a complete mystery.

Hugh and Jack busied themselves with what they feared was a hopeless
attempt to get the radio in commission again. From the small supply of
wire aboard, they rigged an aërial from bow to stern of the boat, using
two extra plane ribs of spruce as spreaders. Suspending the aërial
overhead proved impracticable, and so it was dropped below the hull.
The work kept them employed for nearly two hours, after which Hugh
tinkered with his instruments, but all to no purpose. In the end he was
forced to acknowledge defeat, although at intervals he returned to the
task, glowering and muttering at the offending installation. Hot coffee
was served at six, and with it sandwiches, giving the crew of the _F 8_
a more cheerful frame of mind. Lieutenant Jordan joined the boys in the
after cockpit and laughed and joked as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

By seven o’clock the clouds were thinner and a fitful breeze had sprung
up out of the southeast. Daylight and warmth, too, added comfort,
although the daylight was still obscured by the gray fog bank through
which they were sailing. With the advent of the breeze, steering became
more difficult and the dirigible wobbled from her course frequently.
But somehow or other, manipulating engine and remaining plane,
Lieutenant Gandell always managed to bring her back into her path
again. Once Mr. Traine insisted that he had heard a steamer’s siren,
faint and to the north of them. But although the others listened, the
sound did not reach them again. Noon found them still afloat in a
pearly-gray void at seventeen hundred feet elevation. Several times
pale yellow sunlight reached them, a diffused glow that brought a
slight warmth to chill bodies. But it never persisted. Shortly after
one o’clock――or two bells, as Mr. Jordan called it――the _F 8_ was
worked up to nearly four thousand feet in the hope of finding clear
atmosphere. But the clouds up there, although more scattered, were
still heavy.

An hour later the breeze swung further to the east and freshened
considerably, and the fog broke into wreaths and ribbons that swirled
fantastically about the ship. Both engines were running now and the
_F 8_ was doing a good forty-three miles, rolling and pitching rather
more than was pleasant, but fast approaching the coast, if, indeed, she
had not already reached it. During the afternoon Mr. Traine took the
coxswain’s seat and Mr. Gandell snatched an hour’s sleep below. It was
while the latter was off duty that Mr. Traine’s voice rang cheerfully
out from the bow.

“Land below!”

The commander stared quickly over the side, as did the others, but
the rift in the clouds had closed again, and it was not until a full
quarter-hour had gone by that Lieutenant Traine’s announcement was
verified. Then a break in the clouds showed, only a few hundred feet
below, a brief glimpse of yellowish green. Presently the ship passed
finally out of the fog.

Beneath them, alternately shadowed and sunlighted as they gazed, lay
a vast level plain, a treeless, grassless desert stretching in every
direction as far as eye could reach. Many miles toward the west,
the single break in the flat monotony, a lone mesa stood abruptly
up-pitched above the sun-baked floor of the desert. Patches and flecks
of gray-green appeared to be vegetation of some kind, probably cactus.
After a moment’s looking a cheer went up from the engine cockpit where
Lieutenant Jordan, the upper part of his body stretched athwart the
port engine outrigger, was gazing down at the welcome sight. With a
laugh the others joined in.

“Gee!” murmured Jack. “That certainly looks good, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a sight for sore eyes,” agreed Hugh, beside him. “Guess there
won’t be much trouble finding a landing there. It looks as level as a
billiard table!”

But making a landing without a rudder to rely on and without the help
of a ground crew below was not so easy a task. Very leisurely the _F
8_, her engines only just moving and her propeller idle, settled down
toward the open plain. The breeze swung her slowly about and she began
to drift sidewise. Again the propeller was started, but the attempt to
head her into the breeze was not successful, and, hovering as though
not quite convinced of the wisdom of the act, the big balloon neared
the earth. Anchor and cable were lowered over the side as far aft as
possible and slowly played out until the former touched the ground.
Then, watching for a suitable spot, the commander waited. Finally:
“Lower away,” he called. The many-fluked anchor dragged, caught, pulled
away again while the cable was paid out. Then a fluke found a hold and
the dirigible paused, tugged, swayed and stopped, swinging slowly
around with the wind. At once forward and aft guys were dropped, over
went the rope ladder from the engine cockpit and down swarmed Mr.
Jordan and his mate. All save the commander and Mr. Gandell followed
and a busy ten minutes ensued. As Mr. Traine feelingly put it, it would
have been a great convenience had there been a hitching-post handy!
But there wasn’t, nor any other object big and firm enough to make
the forward guy fast to, and there was nothing for it but to sink the
anchor securely in the earth. The after guy was secured to a metal bar
driven into the ground. Mr. Jordan viewed the result dubiously.

“I guess they’ll hold as long as a wind doesn’t come up,” he said.
“When it does we’ll stay around here about ten seconds! All right here,
sir!”

“Then we’ll have a look at the damage and see what can be done, Sam.
And whatever it is, we’d better do it, for I’ll feel a lot easier when
we’re afloat again.”

“Where do you suppose we are?” asked Jack of Hugh as they walked back
toward the tail in the wake of the others.

“Somewhere in Mexico. That’s the best I can do for you, Jack. Wherever
we are, we won’t be here long. I guess it can’t be far to the border.
Let’s see now. That must be west over there. Then Texas and the rest
of the old U. S. A. must be that way. I’m going inside the envelope
pretty quick and see if that aërial is all right. Though, even if it
is, it won’t help much. I’d like to know what in the name of Benjamin
Franklin is wrong with that set!”

CHAPTER IX

FRIEND OR ENEMY?

Although the commander had spoken confidently of being able to make
repairs to the damaged planes, examination soon showed that the task
was to be no simple one. Fabric in sufficient quantity was stowed
in the “hole,” and a fair supply of slender spruce frames, but when
the rudder had been dismounted and laid on the sandy ground and its
condition considered it became evident that their job was not to
repair it but to build a new one. Only the post of aluminum alloy was
undamaged. New braces must be fitted and new fabric stretched over the
whole. It was no task of an hour or two, but one that would require
the better part of a day. The horizontal plane on the starboard side
of the ship was more easily mended, and that without dismounting.
The tear in the envelope was of little consequence, and the hanging
fabric was carefully cut away and laid aside to be used, if needed, in
the other repairs; if not, to be replaced as best it might. By the
time the broken rudder had been unshipped and made ready for repair
the afternoon was drawing toward night and it was decided to attempt
no more until the next day. Instead, measures for the safe anchoring
of the dirigible were taken. A second cable was run from the forward
end and made fast to a bar of aluminum driven into the dry soil. The
breeze, which blew very nearly from the east, had increased slightly,
and the balloon, nose into it, kept the guys taut. Clouds were banked
high along the horizon to east and south, but overhead and in the other
quarters the evening was clear and, as night descended, cool. A pale
yellow radiance followed the sinking of the sun and continued for some
time. The air was remarkably clear and light, and much exertion soon
left one short of breath. Mr. Traine explained this by telling them
that they were at an altitude of something over 3,400 feet.

That appeared to establish the fact that, in some inexplicable way,
the dirigible had traveled back from the coast a matter of at least
three hundred miles, for no such elevation lay nearer the Gulf. Bending
over a map, the commander placed the points of his dividers down. “We
must be somewhere about here,” he said, “close to the boundary between
Coahuila and Chihuahua. Looks very much as if we’d got about where we
started for,” he added with a laugh.

“That’s queer,” said Lieutenant Gandell. “But we certainly couldn’t
have run off nearly seven hundred miles since midnight!”

“No, that’s what I don’t savvy,” replied Mr. Weeks. “The probable
explanation is that we were much nearer the coast than we figured when
we turned back.”

“Must have been,” the others agreed.

“How near is that town there?” asked Mr. Jordan, placing his finger on
the map. “About forty miles?”

“Nearer sixty, if we’re where I think we are. This is a high plateau.
The map calls it Llano de los Gigantes. I’d say we were on the border
of it, about a hundred and eighty miles south of the Rio Grande. How we
got here――――” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Main thing is, we’re here, what?” said Mr. Traine briskly. “Where’s
Roza supposed to be, Bob?”

“Don’t know. Some say near San José. One of our planes reported what
appeared to be an encampment further east, at a village called Perdero,
which doesn’t show here. It’s safe to say he’s not as far south as
this, anyhow. He’d starve to death here in a week. Besides, he couldn’t
get back and forth across the border as quickly as he does from
hereabouts. When we get fixed up again, though, we’ll have a look for
him.”

“Well, we seem to be not much more than five hundred miles from home,”
said Lieutenant Jordan cheerfully. “We can do that in eight hours if we
have to. We’ve got rations to last another day or so, anyway.”

“Always thinking of your tummy, Sam!” laughed Mr. Gandell.

“Sure! Some one’s got to. Say, speaking about chow, how’d it do to
build a fire down here and cook some bacon and one thing or another?
Sort of be a change, wouldn’t it?”

“Good idea!” applauded the commander. “Wonder if we can find anything
to burn?”

“There’ll be some dried stuff in those mesquite clumps, I guess. And
we’ve got that busted rudder frame, too. Some of you boys forage for
fuel while Dan and I get the grub down. How’d some beans go, gentlemen?”

“Don’t talk so much,” protested Mr. Gandell, “but get busy. I’m so
hungry now I could eat a horned toad!”

“Come on, Hugh,” said Jack. “Let’s you and I find the fuel before it
gets any darker. We aren’t much use as radio artists, so we’ll be
stokers. This air up here surely does make a fellow hungry!”

“Yes, and I’d hate like anything to have to live off the country around
here. I haven’t seen a live thing since we landed, except one lizard,
and he looked half-starved!”

“Don’t believe I’d care to eat a lizard, even if he was corn-fed,”
laughed Jack. “_Wow!_ Say, these bushes have spikes on ’em!”

“I’ve discovered that interesting fact already, my young friend. I’ve
also discovered that when you kneel down it’s just as well to make sure
that there are no cactuses present. Or do you say cacti?”

“I don’t say anything. I saw wood. I mean gather it. I don’t believe
we’ll find enough of this silly stuff to cook with. I can’t find
anything but twigs.”

“Get enough of them, son, and we’ll manage. Gee, but this is a forsaken
hole!” Hugh stood up and gazed across the flat world, now darkening
with shadows. Here and there patches of mesquite or cactus broke
the surface of the sand, but even those had a discouraged look and
seldom grew to a height of more than three feet. Westward, the sky was
faintly aglow and overhead the stars were twinkling, cold and white.
He shivered, partly because of the searching chill and partly from
a sense of the utter loneliness and desolation of this Plain of the
Giants, and followed Jack back to where the others were seated under
the great bulk of the dirigible.

Mate Wason, to whom culinary duties fell, soon had the blaze started.
The group drew closer about the little fire and watched almost in
silence while the bacon was arranged in the pans and the coffee-pot
was set to boil. The warmth was grateful, for this weather was far
different from the climate of Camp Stanton. When silence fell they
could hear only the whistling of the breeze in the mesquite and the
rustling of dry branches and the creaking of the balloon as it tugged
gently at the guys.

“Cheerful place, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Gandell. “I don’t suppose there’s
a living soul within fifty miles. How’s the bacon getting on, Mate?”

“Ready in a couple o’ minutes, sir. It’ll have to be, ’cause there
ain’t any more wood. Just as soon as I heat the beans I’ll yell.”

“And I’ll surely hear you,” said Mr. Gandell. “Man alive, but it’s
cold! Funny how you always think of Mexico as being hotter than Tophet.
This is sort of like an October night up in Maine or somewhere.”

“’Most as cold as it used to be in George’s Channel in July,” said Mr.
Weeks. “Ever do your trick in a destroyer cage off Queenstown on one
of those fine warm English nights, Pete?”

“No, but I know the sort of warm nights you mean. We had ’em in the
North Sea, Bob. Why the water didn’t freeze there in August gets me!”

“Dinner is served, gentlemen,” announced Mate Wason.

“Mug up, folks!” cried Lieutenant Gandell, scrambling to his feet. “Let
go my foot, Sam, or I’ll haul off and――――”

“Hold him, Sam, until I get mine,” begged Mr. Traine. “You know what he
is when he gets his feet in the trough, what?”

The fire became only a bed of glowing embers before the last scrap of
bacon was eaten and the final drop of coffee had disappeared, and after
that, huddling close for warmth, the crew of the _F 8_, comforted by
food, sleepy by reason of their long vigils, lay about the dying fire
and talked lazily, the smoke of mesquite and tobacco mingling. To Jack,
that evening was one long remembered. Sitting there under the frosty
stars, the desert wind on his face, he listened to the conversation
with eyes half closed and his head nodding back at times against Hugh’s
knees. The loneliness of the empty llano made the sound of voices and
the sense of companionship strangely pleasant.

Perhaps he actually slept for a few minutes. At least, he heard
nothing of turning in until his support was suddenly withdrawn and he
found Hugh laughing at him. The fire had died out now and the straight,
ceaseless wind was colder than ever. They climbed back to the boat,
Lieutenant Jordan pulling the ladder up after them to make sure, as he
explained, that no rattlesnakes should follow. It was Mr. Jordan who
volunteered to stand the first watch, and the others went below. There
were but four of the tiny, narrow bunks, and Jack and the mate spread
their blankets in the passage between. It was none too warm even down
there, for that dry wind had a most penetrating quality, and more than
once during the night Jack awoke with his very bones aching. Mate Wason
relieved Mr. Jordan at midnight and at four Hugh piled out. Jack was
more or less aware of the changes, for any one passing in or out by the
companion had to walk over him if not actually on him!

They were all up before six. It was quite light and the breeze from
the Gulf seemed more searching than ever. But breakfast, eaten in the
shelter of the engine cockpit, brightened the world a lot, and by the
time it was at an end the sun jumped up over the eastern edge of the
desert. Soon every one was busy. Hugh and Jack dismounted the auxiliary
antenna they had rigged beneath the hull, for an inspection of the
wires within the envelope had shown them to be all right. After that
Hugh practically pulled the wireless installation to pieces and in the
end found the trouble, but although he spent the whole morning trying
to make repairs he didn’t succeed. Many replacement parts had been
provided, but, as luck would have it, what he needed was missing. Nor
could the combined ingenuity of the two radio operators and Lieutenant
Jordan make good the deficiency.

Meanwhile, the others were busy at the rudder. It was slow work,
for many necessary tools and appliances were wanting. By noon the
temperature had risen until leather coats were laid aside, and the heat
of the fire which Mate Wason built to cook the midday meal with was
avoided.

“We ought to be ready to get off by three or half-past, I’d say,”
remarked Mr. Weeks. “How about patching that hole at the tail, Ben?
Think it’s necessary?”

“No, but the old girl would look more shipshape if we sort of mended
her up there, what? Don’t want Tito Roza to think we’re tramps!”

“All right,” laughed the commander, “we’ll see what we can do about it.
Guess there’s fabric enough. No luck with the wireless, Clode?”

“No, sir. I guess it’s done for.”

“Well, it won’t matter, I suppose. I’d like to have reported to
Headquarters, though. They’ll think we’ve come a cropper if they don’t
get word before long. Can’t be helped, though.”

“Wonder what that hill over there is,” said Mr. Gandell, his gaze on
the distant mesa that, to use his own phrase, stuck up from the plain
like a sore thumb. “Looks to me――I say! What’s that off to the left of
it? That’s no bird, is it?”

“No, it’s a plane,” exclaimed Mr. Weeks. “One of ours, do you think?”

“Might be,” said Mr. Gandell. “Pretty far south, though, and coming
straight out of the northwest. Not likely, I guess.”

“Mexican, then. I’m not sure I like that.” Mr. Weeks gazed at the
distant object for a moment before he continued. “How are your engines,
Sam?”

“All right.”

“That chap’s got his eye on us. Headed right this way. If he wants to
be nasty he can make it mighty unpleasant for us. Let’s get that rudder
on.”

“He’s swinging south,” announced Hugh. “Maybe he doesn’t like our
looks.”

But the airman was not running away, as was soon evident. Having worked
well to the south, the plane banked and came back toward the dirigible.
“About twelve hundred feet up,” said Mr. Weeks, “and――yes, he’s a
Mex. That’s a French machine. Don’t see his colors, though. Here he
comes. Sam, drop my binoculars down here, will you? Let’s have a look
at the chap.” When the glasses were adjusted the commander continued
his comments. “Two of ’em there. No insignia on the wings. That’s odd!
By Jove! Get under cover! He’s training his machine-gun! Under the
balloon, fellows!”

They scuttled, Mate Wason last, growling uncomplimentary remarks. The
plane was nearly overhead now and the _zoom_ of its engine reached
them. Looking up from the shelter of the dirigible, they could see
plainly the faces of the two men in the airship; see, too, the glint of
sunlight on the machine-gun. Then up went the tail and directly toward
them raced the plane in a long, sharp dive. Mr. Weeks whipped out his
automatic, the others following his example. Nearer and nearer swept
the yellow stranger, growing bigger every instant, its nose pointed
straight at the little group in the purple shadow of the balloon.

“The cheeky beggar!” growled Mr. Jordan, and raised his automatic.

“Wait!” commanded Mr. Weeks. “Don’t fire until they do! Maybe they’re
only bluffing!”

The whirring of the propeller made a sound like the beating of many
wings and it seemed that in another moment the airplane would bury
its nose in the ground. Jack, gazing upward spellbound, his automatic
ready, held his breath in mingled alarm and admiration. Then Mr. Week’s
voice rang out sharply:

“Let ’em have it!” he cried.

CHAPTER X

SOLDIERS OF LIBERTY

Jack, whipping his weapon upwards, pulled the trigger. The barking of
his automatic for the instant drowned all other sounds for him. Then he
became aware of a sharp _r-r-ripping_ noise, heard an angry ejaculation
from beside him, felt the sand at his feet spurting as though suddenly
alive and saw the plane swing its nose up. The engine roared, a great
shadow flitted past, a gust of wind swirled the dust and the enemy was
gone! Bullets followed, but already the plane was out of range. Up,
up it climbed, the high-pitched voice of its engines growing fainter
each moment. Silence fell, a silence broken after an instant by Mr.
Gandell’s deep chuckle.

“We got the guy in front,” he said. “I saw him flop. But he came back
all right.”

“And we peppered the wings pretty well,” said Mr. Jordan. “Did they get
you, Ben?”

“Nothing to matter. Spattered my ankle. They were rotten shots!”
replied Mr. Traine.

“Come on up and let me fix it,” said Lieutenant Gandell. “Any other
casualties?”

There were none, it appeared. The commander, reloading his automatic,
gazed thoughtfully after the lessening form of the plane. “Wonder if
they’ll try it again,” he mused. “Let’s hustle with that rudder, Pete.
They’ve certainly got my thanks for not peppering the _Fate_ instead of
us! I’d like to know whether they were Federalists or not! Any one ever
hear of Roza having any planes?”

“No, but I’ll bet that one was his,” answered Mr. Gandell. “We’re sort
of in his bailiwick, aren’t we? Maybe it would be a clever idea to get
away from here before they bring three or four more back to call on us!”

“My idea, too,” answered the commander. “All hands on that rudder and
let’s get it shipped. It’s a fine piece of business to send us down
here with only automatics! If we had a gun on that mount as we should
have――All right, Ben?”

“Yes, only a scratch, thanks. Wish you’d given the word a second
sooner, Bob. I had that greaser covered. He’d never have started that
gun if I’d had the first word!”

“Sorry he got you, Ben, but I couldn’t afford to disobey orders, you
know. Mr. Clode, take these glasses and go up and keep a sharp watch,
please. Let me know if you see anything.”

“Right, sir!”

“Now, then, lift her up, Mr. Mate! Easy! Watch out for that guy! Better
pass that cable back through the wheel, Ben, and be all ready to
connect up. Mr. Sterling, cast off that bow line from the stake. The
other will hold her, I think. Pull the stake up, too, please. And you
might look around and see that we’ve left nothing. Start your engine
whenever you’re ready, Sam. We’ll be through back here in ten minutes.”

But the commander was wrong. At the end of ten minutes the rudder plane
was still unshipped, for the stern-post proved now, in spite of former
inspection, to have been twisted so far out of true that the rudder,
when hung to it, bound at top and bottom and was out of control. Mr.
Weeks concealed his annoyance if he held any, but that he was anxious
was shown by the frequency with which he scanned the sky to the north.
Meanwhile, since it was not possible under the circumstances to take
down the stern-post and straighten it, they set to work to bend the
rudder-post to conform with it. To do that it was necessary to undo
much of their work by removing the fabric at the back, and that was a
slow job. Half-past three came, and four o’clock as well. Jack, who
had taken Hugh’s place in the boat and was keeping a sharp lookout
from the radio cockpit, dropped his gaze from the sky and closed his
eyes momentarily. Staring like that into the blue void made them ache
after a time. When he opened them again something peculiar in the
northeast caught his attention. The clarity of the atmosphere along
the horizon was disturbed by what seemed at first glance a low-lying
cloud. Then he realized that it was dust, and was puzzled. The breeze
was still blowing from a point approximately east southeast, and
while the dust cloud trailed off toward the northwest the heavy part
of it remained stationary or, it might be, moved toward the observer
on a course nearly at right angles to the wind. At every other point
desert and sky met clearly. Here, then, was a phenomenon that required
some explaining, for, if it was not a dust storm, what was it? At
about that period of his cogitations Jack recalled two things: the
binoculars beside him and his orders to report anything suspicious to
the commander. The latter was aiding in the work aft, but he was soon
springing up the ladder after Jack had hailed him.

“It looks like a cloud of dust, sir,” said Jack, handing him the
glasses, “but there’s nothing to see.”

“Possibly sheep or cattle,” mused Mr. Weeks, studying the yellowish
haze. “Or possibly――――” He stopped, leaned over the turtle-back and
called Mr. Traine. “How soon can we get out of here, Ben, if we have
to?” he asked.

“Twenty minutes if we leave the rudder behind. Anything up?”

“I think so. There’s a cloud of dust two or three miles north, and it
seems to be moving this way.”

“Troops?” asked Mr. Traine, climbing quickly to the cockpit.

“I’m afraid so. Cavalry, probably. Have a look.”

“Cavalry’s right, Bob! I caught a dazzle then. Sun struck on something
bright. How long will it take them to get here?”

“Can’t say. They’re coming fast. Think we’d better get off?”

“We might lash the rudder alongside here and go up, only―――― Hang it,
Bob, those greasers haven’t any call to make trouble! We aren’t at war
with ’em!”

“But if they’re some of Tito Roza’s bunch that fact won’t cut any ice
with ’em. I’m not keen on running away, though. Call the others and
we’ll hear what they say. If we knew how many of those chaps there were
we’d know better what to do. From the dust they’re kicking up there
might be a thousand!”

“Or a dozen, Bob. There’s a lot of ’dobe mixed up with this sand and
it’s as dry as talc. If there aren’t too many for us I guess we can
stand ’em off, what?”

That was the verdict of the others, called into conference. While
Lieutenants Gandell and Jordan and Mate Wason went back to their
hurried labors on the rudder, the rest of the crew examined their
automatics and watched the approach of the column of yellow dust. Ten
minutes later it was possible to see objects moving under the billowing
cloud, and, with the glasses, to make out easily enough a body of
horsemen.

“Can’t tell how many there are yet,” said Mr. Weeks. “They’re coming at
a good, hard lope, though. I’d say there are easily thirty, Ben.”

“Thirty, eh? That’s a cinch. Keep ’em down to that many, Bob, and we’ll
send ’em home howling.”

“It may be that they aren’t looking for trouble,” Hugh suggested.
“Perhaps they just want to see what a dirigible looks like.”

“I hope you’re right, Clode,” said Mr. Weeks, “but from the way those
airmen acted I’m afraid you’re not. I presume the plane flew back to
camp and reported what they’d found. I sort of expected trouble from
those fellows.”

“They couldn’t have been very far away,” mused Lieutenant Traine. “See
any better now, Bob?”

“Yes,” replied the commander, grimly, after a moment. “I can see a heap
more than I want to, Ben. There are about forty-five of them; maybe
fifty. The usual half-breed sort, I guess. Well, we’ll talk soft if
they do. If they don’t――――” He shook his head. “If they mean trouble,
gentlemen, there isn’t much we can do. No use fighting that bunch.”

“Any danger of their damaging the ship, do you think?” asked Mr. Traine
anxiously.

“N-no, I don’t believe so. I sort of wish we’d got away, though, while
we had a chance, Ben.”

“Well, it’s too late now. We’ll put up a bluff, anyway. Gee, they’re a
ragged looking outfit!”

“Good mounts, though, most of them,” commented Mr. Weeks. He laid the
binoculars aside and summoned the workers into the boat. “We’ll talk to
them from here, Pete. Wish I knew a little more Spanish.”

“Let Ben loose on them,” suggested Mr. Jordan, grinning. “He’s a great
little linguist.”

“Sure,” replied Mr. Traine. “I know a lot of Spanish; about two dozen
words. I fancy, though, that the movie villain on the roan horse
riding ahead can talk English better than you can, Sam.”

A few hundred yards distant the horsemen pulled down to a walk and
came on rather circumspectly. The leader, a smallish man whose costume
proclaimed him a person of some consequence, halted his nondescript
following at a little distance and saluted ceremoniously. Then, digging
spurs into his horse, he galloped up spectacularly to within a dozen
paces of the balloon, pulled his mount back on its haunches and doffed
his great felt hat with a wide, graceful sweep.

“_Buenas tardes, Señors!_” he called. “I am Capitan Ramon Fosdes, of
General Roza’s Army of Liberty.”

He spoke English well, and looked a harmless, good-natured little
chap. In age he could have been hardly more than twenty-three or
four. A good-looking, smiling, slightly impertinent countenance was
his, with twinkling dark eyes and a tiny black mustache twisted into
pin-points at the ends and heavily waxed. His monstrous sombrero was
embroidered heavily and wound with blue and yellow bands about crown
and brim. White riding breeches let into highly-polished boots from
which gigantic silver spurs protruded, a white shirt open at the neck,
a gay _faja_, or cloth belt, about his middle and a silver-embroidered
jacket of dark green that stopped well above the _faja_ composed his
picturesque costume. But his command boasted no such magnificence.
Most of them appeared to be peons, many were Indians, and all were
as sorry-looking as they were cheerful. Collarless shirts of all the
faded hues under the sun, tight-fitting cotton trousers, an occasional
coat, sometimes shoes but more often sandals, were their attire.
All, however, were armed with rifles, and in most cases their horses
were excellent. While their leader conversed they slouched in their
saddles and smoked cigarettes or prepared them. Mr. Weeks’ estimate of
fifty was none too liberal. Although, since they made no pretense of
maintaining military formation, it was difficult to count them, their
number appeared nearer sixty than fifty.

“How do you do, sir?” responded the commander. “I am Lieutenant
Commander Weeks, United States Navy.”

The Mexican again swept off his big hat. “Señor, I am much honored,”
he assured. “One of our aëroplanes announced your presence here and
General Roza sent me to see if, indeed, it could be true. The presence
of a dirigible balloon so far beyond the border of our country, señor,
was scarcely believable.”

“We encountered a storm two nights since, Captain, and damaged
our rudder. We descended here to make repairs. While so engaged an
airplane, doubtless the one you refer to, flew past and peppered us
with machine-gun fire. Will you be so good, sir, as to explain that?”

“Señor, it is most lamentable. I am empowered to convey General Roza’s
regrets. He is much disturbed, señor. The _comandante_ acted without
orders. The general will explain all, señor.”

“The general? He is not here, sir?”

“An hour’s ride, señor, but a little hour’s ride. I am instructed to
show the way.” The captain smiled engagingly.

“I am very sorry not to have the pleasure of meeting the general,”
replied Mr. Weeks. “We have been delayed too long and must continue
our voyage at once. Please say to him, however, that my Government
will learn with much displeasure of the unprovoked attack on us. Such
conduct, if repeated, will make reprisals necessary. Fortunately, the
only wound inflicted on us is of slight consequence.” The commander
saluted and turned away.

“I am desolate, señor!” The captain, who, while conversing, had deftly
rolled and lighted a cigarette, now let it hang dejectedly from a
corner of his mouth while his shoulders drooped and his small hands
gestured his regret. “For myself, I have no wish to delay the señors,
but there are my orders! The señor _comandante_ himself knows what it
is to be under orders. What can I do? I beg of you, señor, to make
no increase of my difficulty! General Roza’s headquarters are but a
very little distance and I have horses to ride. I beg the señor to be
amiable!”

“He means mischief,” muttered Lieutenant Traine in his superior’s ear.
“Shall we try a few shots?”

“No. We have orders, Ben, to avoid any engagement.” The commander
addressed the Mexican again. “I can only repeat, sir, that we are
unable to oblige you. Kindly present my compliments and regrets to the
renowned General Roza.”

The Mexican, still smiling, shrugged his shoulders, whirled his horse
and gave a command to his ragged following. Instantly, in a cloud of
dust, the horsemen broke and scattered, wheeling left and right, and
circled well out into the desert.

“What the mischief are they up to?” growled Lieutenant Gandell.

“Movie stuff!” grunted Mr. Jordan.

“They’ve called our bluff,” said the commander with a chuckle. “The
captain’s no bad strategist. They’ve got us surrounded, they’re well
out of range of our bullets and they can snipe us as they please. If
there’s a clean white handkerchief in our midst the proud owner might
as well produce it, for I guess a flag of truce is our one remaining
bet!”

CHAPTER XI

OUTNUMBERED

“Do you mean to surrender to that bunch of――of bandits?” sputtered Mr.
Traine. “Hang it, Bob, we’d be a lot of pikers if we did that! Let’s
give ’em a good time first, anyway! What?”

Mr. Weeks shook his head. “Once they begin popping at the balloon,
Ben――――”

“That’s right,” agreed Mr. Jordan. “If they’ll confine their attention
to you, Ben, no one’ll object, but we can’t have the old _Fate_ knocked
full of holes. What do you suppose this Roza guy intends to do with us
once he’s got us, Bob?”

“Keep us prisoners, I guess. That doesn’t suit me much, but it’s a heap
better to be a prisoner than dead. And I think our first duty is to
protect the ship. Who’s got a white handkerchief?”

“I have, but you can’t use it for that purpose!” Mr. Traine scowled
belligerently.

Mr. Weeks laughed. “Well, maybe we won’t need it. Let’s see what their
next move is.”

The cavalry formed a loose ring about the dirigible and its defenders
several hundred yards away, well out of danger from the fire of the
automatics. There was a discouragingly business-like look to the
maneuver, and, although horses curveted and fretted, their riders sat
steady in the saddles with rifles across the horns. Captain Fosdes
alone remained inside the circle. Although he had retired with the
soldiers, he had scorned to seek the immunity of distance, and now,
digging spurs, he sent his roan prancing back toward the balloon. Fifty
yards away he halted, removed his cigarette and blew a cloud of blue
smoke into the sunlight.

“I think I might get him,” said Mr. Traine hopefully. “What do you say,
Bob?”

“No! No firing first for us, Ben.”

“Señor,” called the Mexican, “I have the orders of my Generalissimo
to take you before him. I am all regrets, but what is ordered must
be. I beg of you to reconsider your decision.” He waved a brown hand
gracefully. “Further refusal would be most unwise, señor!”

“I presume, Captain, that you realize that what you are attempting is
an act of war,” replied the commander sternly. “An act of war against a
nation with which your country is at peace.”

“Señor, such matters are not for my consideration. I am only a soldier
whose duty it is to obey.”

“What does this General Roza want of us?” asked Mr. Weeks. “What is his
reason for making this outrageous demand?”

“Señor, how can I know?” The captain shrugged again. “It may be that
he wishes to have explained what your purpose is so far beyond the
boundary between our countries. The señor says truly that our countries
are not at war, and for such reason, it may well be, my general is
concerned at the presence here of a military balloon.”

“General Roza can surely conceive of a balloon being driven from its
course in such a storm as that of two days since,” said the commander
stiffly.

“Possibly, señor, but since the storm traveled west to east?”

“I have already explained that we damaged our rudder. We were forced to
descend where we might. Even now we are not certain of our whereabouts.”

“Doubtless General Roza will be as well satisfied with the señor’s
amiable explanation as I am,” returned the captain, bowing. “But, with
regrets, señor, I must insist that you and your command return with me
to the general’s headquarters. It is but a little distance and I have
horses that you may ride.”

Commander Weeks considered a moment, his eyes traveling over the
encircling line of waiting soldiers. Finally:

“It seems that we have little choice in the matter, sir,” he said
dryly. “We are ready to go with you, Captain, but under protest.”

“_Gracias, señor!_”

“And with one proviso,” continued Mr. Weeks.

“If the señor will graciously make it known,” answered the other
courteously.

“That no harm comes to our balloon. We must be allowed to deflate it
and make all secure before we go.”

“But, señor! General Roza has no wish to take you away from your
balloon. My orders are to bring that to him also. I have here men
sufficient, have I not? Most carefully, señor, shall your wonderful
airship be conveyed. Pray have no uneasiness!”

“It would be simpler to take the balloon under its power, Captain,”
responded the commander innocently.

The captain smiled gently. “Pardon, señor, but I dare not take such
risk. It might be that the balloon would become unmanageable, lacking
a rudder, and that the comandante would not be able to reach the
general’s headquarters. _Quien sabe?_ It would be better, I consider,
that we _sigar_――how do you say? Tow, is it not?――that we tow the
balloon, señor. _Si?_”

“Very well,” consented the commander. He turned to Lieutenant Traine.
“Shan’t need your handkerchief, Ben,” he said, smiling.

The lieutenant sniffed. “Wouldn’t have gotten it if you had,” he
jeered. “Nice pickle we’re in now!”

“Better be a pickle than a corpse,” said Mr. Jordan cheerfully. “Hope
to goodness, though, I get a quiet horse. I’m just about as happy in
a saddle as a fly in a glue-pot! Only,” he added, as he prepared to
follow Mr. Gandell over the side, “not nearly so secure!”

Twenty minutes later a strange procession began to wend its way
northward over the flat llano. Ahead rode a handful of General Roza’s
men, behind them the crew of the _F 8_. Then, laughing and joking, some
twenty ragged soldiers traveled afoot holding fast to two ropes which
depended from the forward underbody of the dirigible. Further back as
many more handled the guys from the tail. Behind them, again, rode the
remainder of the force with the led horses. And overhead, monstrous,
serene, the sunlight aglint on its long silvery cylinder, floated the
_F 8_. Straight toward the north, save when a clump of cactus or
mesquite sent them aside, the riders ahead led the way. Surely the
lizards, peering out from the dried tangles of the mesquite, had never
seen a more remarkable sight!

Captain Fosdes rode at the commander’s side and was amiability itself.
He offered cigarettes generously and conversation even more generously.
It was hard not to feel a liking for the laughing, care-free little
chap, and even Jack, to whom the capture seemed the most horrible
misfortune that fate could have devised, grudgingly acknowledged a
sympathy for him. Jack and Hugh rode side by side, and conversed in
low tones. Hugh was very dejected. For that matter, so were they all,
although they tried hard not to show it. Even Lieutenant Jordan seemed
oppressed, but that may have been due to the fact that he was squeezed
into a saddle rather too short for him on a horse which, while selected
for its docility, failed to win the lieutenant’s trust.

“He may be all right,” he confided lugubriously to Mr. Gandell beside
him, “but what’s he keep turning his head and looking at me for? I
don’t like his expression, Pete. He――he’s got something up his sleeve.
You can’t tell me!”

The _F 8_, alone of the American force, appeared not to be troubled
by the turn of events. The big dirigible followed as quietly and
contentedly as a lamb. Jack and Hugh discussed its fate sadly. “You
can bet this Roza guy won’t let go of it, once he has it,” declared
Hugh. “They’re all robbers, the lot of them. I don’t mean the decent
Mexicans, but these renegades that fight under any one who’ll pay them
a few pesos a month and feed them.”

“But they say that Tito Roza is an educated man,” said Jack, “one of
the decent sort you speak of. If he refused to give up the _Fate_ it
will be an act of simple theft, wouldn’t it? And the United States
would be down on him hard!”

“How would the United States know he had it?” asked the other, gloomily.
“I guess they’re already putting it down for lost; us, too.”

“Why, we’d tell what had happened as soon as we got back,” exclaimed
Jack. Hugh turned a pitying look on him.

“Get back? Where do you get that stuff, old son? We aren’t going to get
back!”

“Not going――Do you mean――――” Jack’s voice dropped to an awed
whisper――“that they’ll _shoot_ us?”

“Search me, but it’s a safe bet that we won’t be reporting at Camp
Stanton just yet awhile. Maybe he’ll just keep us prisoners for a
stretch. If that’s all we’ll be lucky! He’s a murderous little thug,
this Roza.”

“But they haven’t taken our automatics away,” objected Jack. “And
they’ve treated us pretty decently so far. It doesn’t look to me as if
we were prisoners exactly.”

Hugh shrugged. “Wait and see,” he said pessimistically. “Maybe Roza’s
doing this just to amuse himself. Maybe he’s shy a hand at bridge, or
whatever the Mexicans play. And maybe he will give us his blessing and
let us off after breakfast to-morrow. But I don’t believe it!”

“Seems to me,” remarked Jack, after a few moments of silence, “that
if there was danger of being shot Mr. Weeks wouldn’t have given in so
easily.”

“What else could he do? If he hadn’t they’d have killed us back there
and taken the balloon anyway. Guess the Old Man argues that while
there’s life there’s hope.”

“And he’s right,” declared Jack stoutly. “I’m not making my will yet,
Hugh.”

“Nor I, but I’m not fooling myself that this is a week-end house-party
we’re going to! What makes me maddest is to have it happen on my first
voyage. Everything was going so fine and all!”

His companion grinned. “Fine, eh? Wonder what your idea of a rough trip
is!”

“Oh, well, you know what I mean. Of course we had our troubles, but
those are all in the day’s run, Jack. When you get a berth on a
dirigible you naturally look for adventures. But this just sort of ends
the story right in the middle.” He turned and looked back and upward
at the nose of the dirigible, with its great red-white-and-blue rings
glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. “It’s a blamed shame,” he
muttered. “I was getting mighty fond of that old bird, Jack.”

“Me, too,” responded the other. “Don’t you suppose, Hugh, that there is
some way of――of saving her?”

“How?” asked the ensign morosely.

“I don’t know,” was the helpless reply, “but――but there might be.
Suppose we managed to cut her loose!”

“Might as well let Roza have her as that. She’d float around for awhile
and then come down somewhere and smash. Or she might go out to sea. One
thing we might do, though, is to wreck the engines so she wouldn’t be
of any use. I’d do that if I had a chance, even if they shot me for it!”

“And I’d help! But――oh, well, maybe things aren’t as bad as you think,
Hugh. Mr. Weeks doesn’t look very worried.”

“He never does. He’d smile if he faced a firing squad. He’s a wonder.
If this turns out to be the end, Jack, I’ll be glad of one thing,
anyway, and that is, that I served under him!”

“I wish you’d quit talking about firing-squads and――and ends,”
protested the other. “Gee, you’re about as cheerful to talk to as an
undertaker!”

Hugh laughed, though not very heartily. “Guess I’ve got the dumps,”
he said. “What I need, maybe, is a good meal.” He buttoned his jacket
closer, for now that the shadows were growing long across the land
the air was getting chill. An easterly breeze was blowing, too, and
the dirigible had begun to tug harder on the ropes. The sunlight was
no longer gold, but had taken on the queer lemon-yellow tinge, and
above the warmth of color along the western horizon the sky was a
pale, watery green, a chill, clear hue that suggested the depths of an
iceberg. Jack shivered and snuggled into his coat.

Already, however, their destination was in sight across the level
expanse of amber desert. The vegetation had become more evident. The
cactus grew taller and the mesquite denser, and the clumps of the
latter were larger and fresher looking. At intervals a low growth, that
Jack mistook for some kind of grass, carpeted the ground with faded
gray-green. Closer inspection showed that the courageous stranger was
a fleshy-leaved little plant whose whitish runners wove a tangle over
the dry ground, sending forth thick, spear-shaped leaves at intervals.
A half-mile distant lay a dejected looking village of small houses
set haphazardly about on the desert. A few tired trees, stunted and
wind-bent, marked what in courtesy might have been termed a street, a
wide, sandy road bisecting the village. The houses were of adobe brick
or rough boards, some few whitewashed. A tiny church sent an arched
belfry above the other roofs and beside it a great “organ cactus”
reared its long arms. A blue haze of wood smoke lay over the little
town.

Their approach had not gone unheralded, it appeared, for long before
they reached the first huts the populace awaited them. Picturesque
but dirty men in straw sombreros and tattered _serapes_, slatternly
women, half-naked children and flea-infested dogs stared and chattered,
following the procession toward the plaza. Of the men a few were
doubtless soldiers of Roza’s army, although only the possession of a
gun made the fact certain. Indians, with black hair hanging in a fringe
below the wide brims of their hats, predominated. Shoes were seldom
seen, their place being taken by sandals held to the feet by a leather
thong over the toes. A priest, barefooted but wearing a sun-faded
black derby and clothed in a long black cape, stared near-sightedly
through a pair of huge spectacles. Burros wandered dejectedly through
the street, if street it could be called.

Commotion there was, and color as well, since even a peon has a passion
for bright hues, but anything approaching hilarity was oddly lacking.
The inhabitants of Perdero, for such the place later proved to be,
seemed a sad and solemn lot, although the sight of the great silver
cylinder swaying at the end of the ropes evidently aroused curiosity
and a mild excitement. The _F 8_ must have been a strange and even
marvelous sight to them, but they were by no means overwhelmed by awe
or wonderment; indeed, a blacksmith who was shoeing a horse almost in
the middle of the thoroughfare gave but one brief and vacant glance at
it before he resumed his work. No effort was made to take the dirigible
into the center of the village, although there was space enough to do
so, but, obeying the directions of the captain, the soldiers who held
it swung it around nose to the wind and fell into comfortable positions
and lighted their cigarettes. The Americans, conducted by the amiable
captain, rode on along the street, past the crumbling adobe dwellings,
between dogs, children and occasional hens, until the church and the
plaza were behind them. The village proved larger than the first view
had suggested, for, following the wandering street, it continued for
some distance across the desert northward. Military occupation became
more evident as the party proceeded. A corral well filled with horses
and mules appeared, and a sort of barracks built of wooden frames and
corrugated iron sides and roof stood nearby, and about it were many of
the general’s ragged army. Small fires burned here and there and it
was evident that the evening meal was in preparation. Presently the
cavalcade drew rein in front of a more pretentious hovel beside the
door of which two soldiers lolled.

“Headquarters, señors,” announced the captain. “Have the kindness to
alight.”

They did so, Lieutenant Jordan groaning painfully as his cramped
body was wrenched from the saddle. The captain led the way through
the entrance, the sentries saluting quite smartly as he passed, but
at once relapsing into their former somnolence. The pungent odor of
burning wood met them inside the door and, for the instant, afflicted
their eyes. A fire smoldered on a stone hearth. Two plain pine tables
and some chairs were the principal furnishings. Beyond one of them,
flanked by a portable typewriter on one hand and by a pile of books,
papers and maps on the other, sat a man of slight stature. He was
bareheaded, and the light from a casement fell full on his face, with
all the effect, in the dim, shadowed room, of a spotlight. Three other
men were there, indistinct shapes under their huge _sombreros_, but for
Jack and Hugh these others held for the moment no interest. It was at
the small, khaki-clad man beyond the littered table that they stared
in open-mouthed surprise over the shoulders of their companions. Hugh
plucked at Jack’s sleeve. Their eyes met. Jack nodded.

“Señor Gonzales!” he whispered incredulously.

CHAPTER XII

“SEÑOR GONZALES”

Captain Fosdes was making the introductions. There was nothing to
suggest that the Americans were present in the rôle of prisoners;
rather, the captain’s manner gave the impression that they were honored
guests. Nor was the little man at the table less cordial in his
response.

“General,” proclaimed Captain Fosdes, “I have the honor to present
Lieutenant Commander Weeks, of the United States Navy. Señor, General
Roza of the Army of Liberty!”

The man at the table arose to his full height of five feet and four
inches and saluted. Mr. Weeks returned the salute.

“Señor Weeks,” said Tito Roza, “it is an honor and a pleasure to
receive you. Present me, pray, to your officers.”

When that had been done chairs were mysteriously produced, the three
Mexicans who had been in conference with the general retiring, after
being in turn presented, and General Roza motioned to a box of cigars
on a shelf behind him. Captain Fosdes took it down and smilingly passed
it around. He, however, was the only one to accept the general’s
invitation, and Jack amusedly observed him place one of the thin,
greenish-black cigars in his mouth and two more in a pocket. By that
time the general was exchanging compliments with Commander Weeks. The
general, it seemed, held a warm regard for the United States and a
great admiration for her so gallant navy. He spoke of the Navy’s deeds
in the recent war, showing a really remarkable knowledge of the facts.
In return, Mr. Weeks proved himself no mean diplomat. His compliments
were, if anything, even more cordial than the general’s. There was
much bowing, much smiling, and cordiality reigned supreme. Captain
Fosdes, in obedience to a request of General Roza’s, lighted two small
oil lamps which presently dissipated some of the gloom of twilight and
smoke. Thus far General Roza had not recognized Jack, possibly because
during the introductions the latter had been in the background and his
face in shadow. Now, his eyes moving amiably about the group as he
talked, the general’s gaze halted on Jack and a slightly puzzled look
came to his countenance.

“The señor there, the young gentleman beyond,” he interrupted himself
to say. “I did not catch his name, sir.”

“Mr. Sterling, sir,” replied the commander. “One of our radio men.”

“Sterling? But it is not familiar to me, and yet――Señor, have I not had
the honor of meeting you before?”

“On the train, General, some two weeks since,” answered Jack.

“Ah! _Sin duda!_ I remember perfectly now. Señor, it gives me much
pleasure to meet you again.” He turned to Mr. Weeks. “The señor and
I had much amusing talk together. He was most amiable, most polite.
Is it not strange that we should meet again like this? As the saying
is, ‘the world is indeed but a small place’! And now, señor, if your
comrades will pardon us? Captain Fosdes, take the señors in your care,
please, and entertain them while Mister Weeks and I have our little
talk. Señors, I regret that there is so little of interest in our poor
village. You must be amiable and make the best of what we have to offer
for your entertainment. The capitan will show you the quarters I have
had prepared for you. I am sad that they are not better. Gentlemen!”
The general arose and saluted.

Outside again, in the purple twilight, the captain led the way
along the uncertain street to a smaller house of crumbling adobe.
A sour-visaged soldier arose from the ground as they approached and
saluted sketchily. The captain addressed him in Spanish and he hurried
into the darkened interior.

“One little moment, señors,” said the captain. “I have told him to
make a light. This place is not much, but――” he shrugged――“the village
offers little. It is what you call a ‘jay town’; _si?_” He laughed
as he waved toward the room within, now faintly illumined by a glass
hand-lamp placed on a small table in the center of the apartment. A
fire burned sluggishly in a stone recess and a small pile of faggots
lay beside it. In one corner a steep flight of wooden steps led up
through a narrow hole in the ceiling, to the attic above. Two square
openings did duty as windows. Four iron cot-beds, four chairs and the
table comprised the furnishings. The floor was of earth, but hard, and
in places worn well below the general level. The fire thus far had had
small effect on the damp chilliness of the hut.

“Above are three other beds, señors,” explained the captain. “Food will
be brought presently. The soldier at the door will get whatever you
wish if it is to be obtained. I regret that we are unable to offer you
more commodious quarters.”

“Oh, this is all right,” replied Lieutenant Jordan cheerfully. “I dare
say there’s a place to wash, eh, captain?”

“Wash, señor? Ah, _lavado_! _Si, señor_, without; on the outside of the
house you will find all.”

“Sort of public for a bath,” laughed Mr. Jordan. “Well, that’s all
right, too. Let’s sit down. Take a chair, captain. Bed’s good enough
for me. How’s the scrap going?”

“Scrap? Ah, the _revolucion_! Beautiful, señor! One month more――two――and
it is all over. Liberty will triumph, señor! The tyrants already
tremble! Then my country will know peace and prosperity and my people
will be again happy.”

“Hope so, I’m sure,” said Mr. Traine, dryly. “It’s been some time since
the people were that, what? Folks around here like this General Roza,
captain?”

“They love him, señor! All over this state, all over the north he is
most popular. Why not, since he is the _Salvador_ of his Country?”

“Well, there have been so many ‘salvadors,’” said Lieutenant Gandell,
dubiously. “It’s a good game, though.”

“Game? Game, señor! I do not like that, me!” The captain drew himself
up haughtily, indignantly. “You mean play, _si_? You mean joke? Señor,
you insult me! My comandante! My country! My cause! You――――”

“No, no, Captain! You misunderstand; _entender mal, señor!_ My friend
meant that it was a worthy undertaking――er, _empresa! Sabe?_”

“The señor speaks the Spanish? I am surprised! But, no, I did not
understand. I beg your pardon, señor, a thousand pardons! Often I
mistake your language, the――the _sutileza_――I do not know how you say
it――――”

“Subtlety,” prompted Mr. Traine. “You’re right, captain; English is a
difficult language to master. Not like your Spanish. Now, there’s a
language for you, what? I don’t know much of it, but――――”

He was interrupted by the entrance of the commander, and after a few
moments the captain, again all affability, took himself away. Mr. Weeks
drew a chair to the fire and thoughtfully filled his pipe. Mr. Jordan
put the question that they all wanted an answer to.

“Well, sir, what’s the verdict? Shot at sunrise?”

Mr. Weeks smiled as he accepted a light from Hugh, and shook his
head. “Not that bad, Sam. Fact is, I don’t know yet what the little
cuss has up his sleeve. He’s a fox. Asked me a thousand questions.
Wanted to know how we got here. Also why. Of course I didn’t tell
him we’d started out on a reconnaissance. But he knows it, just the
same. Reminded me politely that the presence of an American airship
over Mexican soil just now was likely to be misunderstood, and so
on. I bluffed as well as I could. He’s foxy, though. Said our people
had tried his patience lately by invading his territory. I told him
he had nothing on us there, and he pretended he didn’t know anything
about Mexican raids into American territory; said they were the acts
of brigands and not authorized by him. Said he’s fighting the present
Government of Mexico and not the United States. Hang him, he had all
the cards, and took most of the tricks. Of course I talked big about
my country being peeved if he interfered with us, and all that, but he
didn’t scare worth a cent. The chap’s got plenty of sand; I’ll say that
for him!”

“He didn’t say how long he was going to keep us, then?” asked Mr.
Gandell.

“No. All I could get out of him along that line was that he would see
that we were well looked after and that we’d have another chin in the
morning. One thing he did say, though, set me thinking, fellows. He
said the chief thing that keeps his Army of Liberty from winning the
game right off is lack of money. Maybe the crowd that was financing
the revolution have shut down on him. Anyway, he gave me the impression
that funds are what he’s looking for just now.”

“Well, what’s your idea?” prompted Mr. Gandell, after a moment’s
silence.

“I was wondering how much we might be worth to our friends,” replied
the commander dryly.

“What! You mean――ransom?”

Mr. Weeks nodded. “Yes, what do you suppose your value is, Pete?”

“Well, I’ll be switched! Hold us for ransom, eh? Why, the――the mean
little pup! I’d like to――――”

“I don’t say that’s what he has in mind,” said the commander. “It just
occurred to me, that’s all.”

The engineer’s mate had strolled idly to the door. Now he came back
and spoke softly to the commander. “There’s only the one Mex on guard,
sir,” he said, “and he’s half asleep. ’Twouldn’t be any trick to tap
him on the head, sir.”

“We’d be no better off, Dan. We’re more than a hundred miles from the
border and Roza’s troops are probably sprinkled all over the map around
here. Besides, there’s the _Fate_. Guess I’ll have to stick by her.
Look here, though! The rest of you might as well duck if you want to
take the chance. There are horses across the road in that corral, and
if you got a good start you might get through, with luck.”

“Rot!” growled Mr. Jordan. “We’d look well running off and leaving you
to face the music alone, wouldn’t we? Anyway, I’d rather face a firing
squad than a saddle!”

“I suppose there’d be no chance of getting to the dirigible along
toward morning and cutting loose?” asked Mr. Gandell.

“I thought of that, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t work. He’s got it pretty
well looked after, from what he said. As a last resort, though, we
might try it. First, though, we’ll sit tight and see what he has to say
to-morrow.”

“Sure,” agreed Mr. Jordan. “He may have a change of heart and let us
go. Meanwhile, wasn’t something said about chow?”

“The captain said they were going to bring some supper to us,” answered
Mr. Weeks. “What’s the time, anyway? Nearly eight, by Jove! I thought
there must be reason for the empty feeling in my middle latitudes!
Either the general dines late or he’s forgotten us, what?”

But supper appeared almost before the lieutenant had finished speaking.
Boiled beef and rice, _tortillas_, which were made of corn and looked
like good American pancakes, _chile con carne_, which was only brown
beans in spite of the name, and much black coffee comprised the meal.
Hunger made the repast seem a veritable banquet, and when, replete
and cheerful, they piled the empty plates back in the shallow basket
that did duty as tray and handed it to the sentry outside, life looked
vastly brighter. Some of the precious faggots were tossed in the fire,
pipes and cigarettes were lighted and, drawn as close to the warmth as
possible, they forgot for the while that their fate lay in the hands of
a small, dark-skinned gentleman named Tito Roza.

Jack didn’t sleep very soundly that night. He and Hugh and Mate
Wason bunked in the loft, their noses but a few inches from the low
roof. Strange noises disturbed the silence; the keen, straight wind
sighed dolorously through crannies and crept beneath the one coarse
blanket with which the bed was provided. Dogs barked continuously,
nearby and afar. Somewhere a horse kicked monotonously against his
stable wall. It was well past midnight when he finally fell asleep to
dream troubled dreams, and well short of morning when he was rudely
awakened by the strident crowing of a rooster beneath the casement.
Other roosters answered the challenge, and a mule brayed in the nearby
corral. Gradually quiet fell again and once more sleep came. Then it
was daylight and a rosy glow filled the attic and in the room beneath
some one was breaking faggots. Jack drew the blanket over his head and
pretended he was not awake, but once the fire was started the smoke,
which seemed to prefer the loft to the chimney, drove him down the
stairs.

Breakfast, principally coffee and hard bread, was soon disposed of,
and then, while the sun was still barely above the edge of the flat
world, the commander was summoned by a grinning, black-eyed soldier of
perhaps fifteen years to Headquarters. As he went out Lieutenant Jordan
detained him. “Bob,” said the lieutenant gravely, “if that two-by-twice
general puts a price of less than ten thousand on me I’ll bust him! You
tell him that. I may not be pretty to look at, but I’ve got a market
value.”

“You must want to spend the rest of your days here, Sam,” replied the
commander. “Think any one would pay that much to get you home?”

“Well, there are my creditors, Bob!” was the answer. “Some one loves
me!”

CHAPTER XIII

GUESTS OF TITO ROZA

Captain Fosdes, who appeared to have been constituted their guide and
mentor, appeared shortly after the commander’s departure and suggested
a stroll. The sentinel watched them go with sullen indifference and
made no move to accompany them. Nor, save for the captain, was any
guard placed about them.

“Guess Roza knows,” said Hugh as they followed the captain along the
road, “that we’re safe enough. Look at that desert out there, will you?
A fat chance we’d have of getting away!”

“With horses,” began Jack in low tones.

“They’d catch us. We don’t know the trails. Guess the only way we’ll
get out of this forsaken hole is the way we came, by air.”

“We didn’t; we came on horseback.”

“Oh, well, you know what I mean. Gee, I’m beginning to get a little bit
warm for the first time since last night. Who’d ever think it could be
as cold as this in Mexico!”

“I suppose you can be cold anywhere if you get three or four thousand
feet up.”

“Wish I was up three thousand more. I wouldn’t mind the cold a bit!”

They wandered around the little town for most an hour, the captain
striving heroically to entertain them. They saw the tiny church and
shook hands with the derby-hatted priest, who knew a few words of
English and was delighted to use them. They visited the market place
and squandered a few silver coins for green oranges, prickly pears,
nuts and villainous tasting cheeses. Considering the size of the town,
it was remarkable how many tattered, dirty merchants sat on the ground
with their wares spread before them on squares of cloth or ragged
baskets or, failing these, on a flat stone. They were a sad, dull lot,
those Indians and half-breeds; scantily clad, unwashed, unshaven,
starved-looking. There were many women and young girls among them, bare
of head, their black hair plastered flat; bare of foot as well in spite
of the cold ground, and clothed in rags. Jack was glad to see the last
of them.

More cheering was the sight of the _F 8_, securely moored to a wizened
tree and guarded by a score or so of Roza’s soldiers. They walked
around her and were vastly relieved to find that everything appeared
to be all right.

“We might get that rudder in place while we’re marking time here,” said
Lieutenant Gandell. “I don’t believe the general would object. She’s
not much use without it.”

To this the captain agreed. “We will see the general and ask him,” he
said. “No doubt he will be most willing, señors. And the soldiers shall
help.”

From there they worked back through the lazy village to the drill
ground where several companies of Roza’s infantry were going through
the daily evolutions. Save that they were well armed and displayed a
certain listless, careless response to the commands of their khaki-clad
officers, one might more readily have taken them for a crowd of
picturesque beggars. Asked how many soldiers comprised General Roza’s
army, Captain Fosdes was very vague. “Many thousands,” was his most
explicit reply. He led them to infer that only a very small portion of
the army was quartered at Perdero, although where the balance was he
did not say. A battery of machine-guns and a small troop of cavalry
dashed out of the village while they were still looking on, and these
supplied more interest. But, at the best, discipline seemed lax and
morale low, and Lieutenant Gandell confided to Hugh and Jack on the
way back that he could lick Tito Roza’s whole army with a handful of
Uncle Sam’s gobs and three marines!

Mr. Weeks was awaiting them when they reached their quarters. Two
murderous-looking brigands in immense straw sombreros and ridiculously
tight trousers were with him, and they were formally presented as
Colonel Rodas and Major Demedina. The officers were both wide and
short, swarthy of skin, black-haired. Each wore a fierce mustache,
waxed and pointed. But Colonel Rodas had a sharp, pointed beak of a
nose and Major Demedina’s features looked as if they had been treated
with a steam-roller at an early age. Villains in a musical comedy were
what they reminded Jack of, and yet they proved to be _caballeros_
with charming manners and fine white teeth that flashed frequently
under their fierce mustaches. As greatly as they desired to hear the
result of the commander’s visit to General Roza, Jack’s companions were
forced to wait until, after more than an hour, the likeable brigands
took their departure. Major Demedina spoke English fluently but far
from correctly, and his mistakes amused him quite as much as they did
the others. He had, it seemed, fought in many lands and under many
flags, and he frankly admitted that he was less interested in Roza’s
cause than in his exchequer. Colonel Rodas and Captain Fosdes smiled
humoringly, apparently wishing to convey the idea that the Major was
not to be taken too seriously, but Jack felt that the leather-hued
soldier-of-fortune was speaking no more than the truth. When the three
officers took themselves off it was with flattering expressions of
regard and numerous bows, leaving the Americans unable for the moment
to realize that they were virtually prisoners of war. Wason, gazing
after the retreating forms of the Mexicans, muttered inaudibly.

“What’s that, Dan?” asked Mr. Weeks.

The mate shifted his weight from one big foot to the other in
embarrassment. “I――I said it seemed like we were the life of the
party,” he stammered.

“Yes,” laughed the commander, “I wonder how they got along down here
without us! We’ve made a hit all around, it seems,” he went on with
mock gravity, “for the general has kindly offered us all commissions in
the Army of Liberty.”

“Get out!” scoffed Mr. Gandell.

“Fact, though. Very flattering, isn’t it? I gathered that we’d all get
an advanced rating and the pay is really not to be sneezed at. Two
hundred and fifty pesos a month, I think he said.”

“How much is a peso?” asked Mr. Jordan.

“One dollar.”

“American or Mex.?”

“Mex.”

“Oh! That means about a hundred and twenty-five in real money, then,
doesn’t it?”

“Something like that, I suppose. But you’ve got to acknowledge that it
sounds well! Also, he has offered to buy the _F 8_ at a fair price,
to be determined by a board of appraisement. That is to be paid for,
though, when the shindig is over and he’s got his fist in the coffers
at Mexico City. Meanwhile we get a note signed by the general and the
President of the Free State of Coahuila and the Treasurer and Secretary
of State and a few others, all of which he is. Don’t see but what we’ve
hit it pretty soft, gentlemen!”

“Soft is right,” agreed Mr. Jordan, grinning. “What did you say to him,
Bob?”

“Why, I wanted to be tactful, you know, and so I told him that we were
navy men and would hardly fit into the army. But he sure is obliging,
I’ll tell the world! Said that would be all right. Said he’d been
thinking for some time of having a navy and he might as well start now.
So we’re admirals and commodores and such, the moment we give the word.
Wouldn’t wonder if you were a lieutenant commander, at least, Dan.”

“Much good that’d do me if I had to live on the sort of chow we get
here, sir,” answered Wason.

“I hope you told him where to get off!” said Mr. Traine hotly.

“N-no, I didn’t――exactly, Ben. I thought there was no use riling him. I
just told him we were quite satisfied with our present jobs, and that
we couldn’t very well sell the _Fate_ since it unfortunately belonged
to Uncle Sam. He didn’t think a heap of that last argument, though.
I could see that. I sort of dropped in his estimation right then and
there. Well, that completed the proceedings for that time. We exchanged
avowals of life-long friendship and parted.”

“I’d like to part him――with a cutlass!” growled Mr. Gandell. “He didn’t
say anything about letting us go?”

“He did not. In fact, I gathered that letting us go at present is far
from his scheme of things, Sam. Guess he’s getting fonder of us every
day. Sort of embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“You might say that,” agreed the other dryly. “I say, can that greaser
there understand what we say?” He nodded at the sentry by the door.

“_Muchacho_,” said Mr. Weeks, “_habla usted Ingles_?”

The sentry awoke from his doze and shook his head, glowering.

“That’s all right, then,” said Mr. Weeks cheerfully.

“Well, he shook his head, but maybe he meant that he didn’t understand
what you asked him,” jeered Mr. Gandell. “Anyway, he looks like a liar,
and so the chances are that he savvys everything we say. Let’s talk
lower, anyway. Now, Bob, what’s the program?”

“Sit tight, Sam.”

“Sit tight! Hang it, we’ve been sitting tight and it hasn’t got us
anything. I’m for action! Let’s――let’s do something, Bob! We’ve still
got our popguns. Let’s shoot up the place and start something. And
let’s start on that little runt of a general!”

The commander smiled and shook his head. “We’re in a country where
haste is considered bad form, Sam. If you give one of those ‘Do It Now’
signs to a Mexican he turns it over and writes ‘_Mañana_’ on the back
of it and then hangs it over his desk wrong side to! I’ll bet that if
Tito Roza took us out and stood us up in front of a nice whitewashed
wall to-morrow morning we wouldn’t get shot until the next day! Joking
aside, though, what I want to do first of all is to deliver the _F
8_ back to Camp Stanton, safe and sound. If I can deliver the rest
of us along with her, all the better. But my first duty, and yours,
fellows, is to the ship. We’re Navy men still, even if we sail the air
instead of the water, and you know what that means. I propose to give
Roza plenty of time and plenty of rope. In my opinion nothing is to be
gained by forcing his hand. He’s got us dead to rights. We can talk
all we please about indignities and reprisals, and it won’t bother him
a mite. What he wants to do now is to get the balloon and us to sail
her, and he’s willing to act square, according to his lights. Failing
that――well, that remains to be seen. He will probably try to keep the
balloon, though. As for us, he may give us safe conduct, or he may keep
us cooling our heels right here until he gets tired of us.”

“Fine!” growled Mr. Jordan. “Then what?”

The commander smiled, shrugged and twirled an imaginary mustache.
“_Quien sabe_, as our linguistic friend Ben would say!”

“Well, anyway,” said Mr. Gandell, impatiently, “what’s to keep us from
getting that rudder fixed? The old girl isn’t much use to any one until
it is. I’ve got to do something besides watch the cactus grow or I’ll
go nutty and bite the sentry!”

“And get poisoned and die in agony,” said Mr. Jordan.

“Right-o, Sam,” answered the commander. “I spoke of that and my friend
the general agreed that it would be an excellent idea. He offered all
his resources, including the entire Army of Liberty――to-morrow!”

“Hang to-morrow! Besides, we don’t want a lot of those greasy peons
messing around underfoot. Three of us can do the job in a couple of
hours. Let’s get at it, Bob!”

“I’m agreeable. Goodness knows I’m not crazy about this elegant
leisure. Come on, then; let’s go!”

At first there was difficulty in getting access to the dirigible,
for the ragged _sargento_ in charge of the squad suspected a plot to
recapture the balloon. He was smiling, voluble, unintelligible and very
firm. Ensued a half-hour during which Lieutenant Weeks returned to
headquarters, General Roza summoned Captain Fosdes, an orderly tracked
the captain from one end of the village to the other before he found
him, and during which Lieutenant Gandell addressed his companions
eloquently on the subject of Mexico and the Mexicans. Eventually,
however, the amiable Captain Fosdes appeared, apologetic for delay, and
the sergeant was persuaded. The American señors were to be allowed to
make repairs to the planes but were not to enter the hull. Such, said
the captain, were the general’s orders. For his part, it was sufficient
that the señors should give their word not to attempt to leave,
but――with an eloquent shrug――orders were orders, _si_?

That the general’s wishes should be observed, the sergeant himself
mounted into the boat with eight of his command and remained there,
with rifles suggestively evident, during the time of repairs. Had it
been in the minds of the Americans to attempt an escape they would have
reconsidered, for a dozen or so other soldiers lounged in the shade,
and, as Hugh confided to Jack, several of them looked very much as if
they would derive a lot of satisfaction from putting a bayonet or a
bullet into a _Yanké_! To Mr. Gandell’s satisfaction, though, there
was no headlong rush on the part of the guard to give assistance. The
soldiers appeared quite content to leave the labor to the Gringoes.
The most they offered was criticism, and as that was in Spanish it
was not vastly helpful. As for Captain Fosdes, he was all eagerness
to aid. He declared the fact many, many times and proved it by being
forever in the way. That his offers of assistance were not accepted
seemed, however, to sadden him but little. He rolled his interminable
cigarettes and smoked them with apparent enjoyment.

At last the task was done, and well done, and by that time it was past
noon and the captain was hinting of _comida_, which meant dinner. As
breakfast had been sketchy, they were all quite ready for a hearty
meal, and so returned to their quarters filled with pleasurable
anticipations. What they found, however, was a very small quantity
of stewed tripe, faintly redolent of onions, and some of the eternal
_tortillas_. And that was all. Hugh and Jack sought the market place
later and partly satisfied their hunger with bananas and some sticky
candy like “fudge.”

The second day of their enforced sojourn in Perdero drew finally toward
its end. Commander Weeks and Lieutenants Traine and Jordan dined with
the General and a number of his officers at headquarters, but the
others ate again around the small table in front of the smoldering
faggots, their fare much the same as on the preceding evening. Later,
as none offered to interfere, the quartette sallied forth for a walk in
the purple twilight. The village was indoors to the last inhabitant,
and no more deserted a scene could well be imagined than Perdero after
dark. To be sure, at intervals a soldier, wrapped against the chill
of evening in a frayed _serape_, his two-foot _sombrero_ pulled down
over his eyes, leaned in some sheltered corner, and a squad of the
Army of Liberty still guarded the dirigible. But for the rest, only
flea-ridden, cringing dogs disputed their way. A half-hour of such
amusement was enough, and they were all glad of the comparative warmth
of the hut when they returned to it. It was necessary to step over the
recumbent form of the sentry, for that noble patriot had fallen fast
asleep with his rifle clutched to his breast. The commander and his
two fortunate companions returned after awhile and were suspiciously
non-communicative as to their entertainment. But Mr. Gandell was
persistent and the truth came out.

“We didn’t want to talk about it, Sam,” said Mr. Weeks, “for it seemed
a bit rough on the rest of you, what? Fact is, though, we had one swell
dinner: chicken, sausages, tomatoes, rice――er――quite a lot of truck. We
certainly wished you fellows had been there.”

Mr. Gandell only groaned.

CHAPTER XIV

HELD FOR RANSOM

Four unsatisfactory days passed. The Americans were allowed every
privilege save one, that of boarding the _F 8_ and taking their
departure. Regularly once a day General Roza made a fresh and more
liberal offer for the services of the dirigible’s crew. By the fourth
day the proposed pay of the commissioned officers had advanced to
three hundred and twenty-five pesos a month. Mr. Weeks was courteous
in his refusals, but it became evident that the general was losing
patience. On the third day a detachment of travel-worn and ragged
troops came into Perdero from the northwest, bringing three wretched
peon prisoners. These, the Americans learned, were accused of giving
information to the enemy, in this case the Federalists. They were a
sorry, degraded trio, and if their plight worried them they failed to
show it. Very stolid they looked, as, guarded by two soldiers, they sat
on the ground outside headquarters and smoked corn-husk _cigarillos_.
Later, it appeared, there was some sort of trial, and the poor men were
hustled across to the little _cárcel_ in which military and civilian
offenders were jailed.

Now and then a small scouting party set forth or returned, and once a
very stout _cabellero_ on a diminutive buckskin horse galloped
dramatically into town and pulled up before General Roza’s headquarters.
Once there, however, instead of throwing himself from his steed and
dashing into the house, he rolled a cigarette leisurely and lighted it.
Then, dismounting unhurriedly, he gave the horse over to a soldier, set
his _sombrero_ carefully over his eyes, adjusted his belt and at last
disappeared indoors. Jack and Hugh, who had watched his arrival, agreed
that he bore tidings of much importance. But nothing happened to prove
them right. No commotion ensued. No orderly rushed forth to summon
officers to a council. No bugle sounded “To Arms.” After ten minutes of
waiting they wandered off, disappointed.

“Guess it must have been a false alarm,” said Hugh. “These Mexicans are
a queer lot, aren’t they? They make war about the way a gang of kids
would play it!”

For the Americans nothing of moment occurred during those days of
waiting, with the exception of one incident that for a time strained
diplomatic relations. For awhile they had wondered where the airplane
that had peppered them was located, for nothing that looked like a
hangar had met their sight. At last, however, Lieutenant Gandell solved
the problem. Cruising about the outskirts of the town in company with
one of the affable Mexican officers one day, he had come on a structure
of tent-cloth. The khaki-colored canvas so closely resembled the
yellow-drab desert that the improvised hangar was easily overlooked.
The Lieutenant’s companion very proudly exhibited the contents, two
French biplanes. One was evidently out of commission, for its engine
was strewn about the ground in sections and a few mechanics were
half-heartedly messing around it. The second machine, doubtless the
one that had visited them several days ago, appeared to be all right.
Of the flyers none was visible. The Mexican officer spoke grandly of
“our Air Squadron,” but Lieutenant Gandell was not vastly impressed.
Relating the discovery afterwards to his companions, he remarked that
it might be a good idea to go over to the hangar some dark night and
“fix” the good machine so that, if they should happen to get away
in the _Fate_, it couldn’t pursue them. No one, however, took the
suggestion seriously, and no one thought much more of the matter save
Mate Wason.

Dan’s resentment still smoldered, it seemed, and the next day, quite
alone, he set forth to find the hangar. What happened was never
entirely clear, for Dan knew no Spanish and so was not able to give
an accurate account of the conversation that he held with the dashing
aviator he discovered in the tent. But according to the mate’s version
of the incident, he asked the flyer if he was one of the “fresh guys”
who had trained the machine gun on the dirigible crew. The flyer,
polite as you please, smiled agreeably and said “_Si, si, señor!_” Dan
knew that to mean yes. Whereupon he inquired, not nearly so courteous
as the airman, what the latter had done it for. By this time an
audience of half a dozen was smilingly grouped around. Not knowing what
the American was saying, but polite to the last, the flyer again smiled
and said “_Si, si!_” even more enthusiastically. Despairing at last of
getting a sensible reply, let alone a decent apology, Mate Wason shot
out a large competent fist and knocked the aviator flat. Confusion and
excitement ensued. Dan declared that he had never seen “a bunch of guys
act as crazy as those did!” Two of them pulled guns and Dan had to
knock them down as well. After that retreat looked not dishonorable and
he made his escape. Only the fact that the marksmanship of the outraged
enemy was utterly discreditable allowed him to gain the shelter of an
adobe hut. Bullets hit the ground on all sides, but never came very
close to the mate, and, once around the first house, the rest was
easy. A few minutes later he lolled into the quarters looking somewhat
heated but very much pleased and satisfied. It required much diplomacy
on the part of Mr. Weeks to appease the general and his staff, to say
nothing of the assaulted aviator, who, it turned out, was a major and
a flyer of much renown in the country. General Roza at last suggested
that an apology to the major was in order and that if it was made he
would consider the honor of the Army of Liberty satisfied. Whereupon
Lieutenant Commander Weeks replied that as soon as an apology was made
to him for firing on them he would apologize to the major. The general
waved aside the idea of an apology, although graciously acknowledging
that the incident had been unfortunate, and Mr. Weeks firmly refused to
be satisfied. The affair reached a deadlock. In the end, tiring of the
whole business, General Roza shrugged, spread his hands and ordered
his dinner.

But the matter apparently convinced the general that further efforts
to enlist the sympathy and services of the Americans in the cause of
Mexican liberty were useless, and the next day he again summoned Mr.
Weeks before him and, as the commander put it, “talked turkey.” The
dirigible was confiscated by the Army of Liberty under the laws of
the Independent State of Coahuila. Its personnel had been tried and
found guilty of invading a friendly country under force of arms. The
penalty was very severe, but the Court was inclined to be lenient
and had decided to impose fines instead of imprisonment. Therefore
the commander was fined fifty thousand pesos, the other commissioned
officers twenty-five thousand pesos each and the remaining offender
fifteen thousand pesos. Pending the payment of the fines, the Americans
were to be kept prisoners.

“When did this trial take place, general?” asked the commander.

“An hour since, señor.”

“Is it not required by your laws that the accused shall be represented
by counsel?”

“Assuredly, señor.”

“But we were not so represented!”

“Pardon, señor, I myself appointed counsel for you.”

“Oh!” The commander smiled slightly. “I see, General. Well, since
all formalities were properly complied with, I have nothing to say.
Doubtless the trial was quite fair, although in my country it is
customary to allow the accused to be present at it. But that is only a
detail.”

“Absolutely, señor. Can you say when you expect the fines to be paid?”

“Certainly, general. I expect them to be paid――never!”

“Never! The señor jokes, _si_?” The general frowned, his sharp eyes
searching the commander’s face.

“No, general, I do not joke. The fines, as you choose to call them,
will not be paid unless I advise it, and I surely shall not advise it.
Your position is untenable, as you very well know. Our detention is
unlawful, the confiscation of our airship is unlawful, this imposition
of fines is unlawful. For your own sake I advise you strongly to let
this matter go no further. Release us and our dirigible at once and,
so far as I am concerned, there shall be an end of it. Proceed on your
most ill-advised course, General Roza, and much trouble will come of
it. That I promise you. You cannot put such indignity on officers of
the United States Navy, sir, and escape unpunished.”

“Señor, I am well within the law of my country. What you say does
not trouble me. I regret the unfortunate circumstances, but my duty
is plain. It is my intention to dispatch a messenger at once to the
_telégrafo_ at Rosita Blanco. The consul of your country at Monterey
will be appraised of your conviction and of the amount of the fines
imposed by the court.” Perhaps the general caught a flicker of
satisfaction in the commander’s eye, for he added quickly: “But be
convinced, señor, that the place of your detention shall not be made
known. On receipt of the fines by my agent at a certain town which
shall be specified you will be released and given safe conduct to the
border.”

“I see,” answered the other thoughtfully. “You think that such a
message, with no confirmatory word from me, would result in the payment
of this money?”

“Certainly, _Señor Comandante_. Why not?”

“Because my government, friends, whoever might be moved to pay this
ransom, would not know whether it was true. Ninety-five thousand
dollars is a large sum of money, General. One doesn’t let go of it so
easily.”

The general looked doubtful, a trifle worried. “What, then, do you
advise, señor?” he asked.

“You already have my advice, General,” replied the commander gravely.

The other shrugged impatiently. “But, señor, supposing that I do not
choose to heed that? What then, I ask you.”

“Allow me to consult with my companions, sir,” said Mr. Weeks after a
moment’s thought. “It is late now. Doubtless to-morrow will do as well
as to-day for the sending of the message. Give me until to-morrow,
General, to consider the matter.”

“By all means, señor! There is, as you say, no need for haste.
To-morrow we will talk again. _Adios, señor._”

Back at the little adobe hut that bade fair to be home for a long time,
the commander told his story. His companions listened in silence, save
for occasional grunts of derision, and when he had finished it was the
irrepressible Lieutenant Jordan who made the first comment.

“Where does he get that stuff?” he asked in pretended indignation.
“How’s it come I’m worth only twenty-five thousand? Looks to me like
that’s a fighting insult!”

“He’s plain dippy,” said Mr. Traine impatiently. “Who’s going to plank
down a couple of hundred thousand dollars to get us out of here, what?”

“Only ninety-five, I make it,” corrected the commander soothingly, “at
the present rate of exchange.”

“Well, it might as well be one as t’other! I can see the Navy doing
it――not! Oh, he’s crazy!”

“Tell you what I’ll do,” said Mr. Jordan. “When I get back home I’ll
get a bill into Congress. It won’t take more’n a couple of years,
and――――”

“When _you_ get back!” cried Mr. Gandell, scornfully. “Who the dickens
do you think is going to pay twenty-five thousand pesos for you, you
sawed-off apology?”

“Me? The United States Government, sir! The Government will always
spend its money for good value. But, I say, Bob, was his nibbs talking
cash or terms? Maybe if we pay cash we can get a bully good discount!”

“Let’s cut the comedy stuff,” said Mr. Traine. “We’ve got to decide
what’s to be done, fellows. I’ve no intention of sticking around here
until the war’s over. Is there any way of double-crossing him, Bob?”

“I don’t see any. He wants to be paid in Mexican money, you see. If it
wasn’t for that we might work off a truck load of Confederate bills or
a bunch of oil mine stock on him.”

“You seem to think it’s a sort of a funny joke, too,” Mr. Traine
grumbled. “Wish I could!”

“Well, it is a joke,” replied the commander, “but maybe it isn’t
funny.” Silence followed until Hugh spoke.

“How does he mean to get word to our friends, sir, or whoever it is he
expects to ransom us?”

“Send a messenger to the nearest telegraph office and wire our consul
at Monterey.”

“Too bad we haven’t got our wireless working,” said Jack thoughtfully.
“It would save time, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, and――” Mr. Weeks stopped and stared intently for a long moment at
the crumbling wall. “Look here!” He dropped his voice and they leaned
closer. “If we can get him to let us fix that wireless of ours and send
the message from here we might slip something over on him.”

“I’m afraid he’s too foxy,” said Mr. Jordan, doubtfully. “I don’t
believe we could do it.”

“We might, though,” said Lieutenant Traine. “Funny thing he hasn’t a
wireless of his own here, isn’t it?”

“If we could work a couple of code words into the message showing our
location,” began Hugh eagerly.

“But can the pesky thing be fixed?” demanded Mr. Jordan.

“I think so, here. It’s a case of making a new part. It might take some
time, though.”

“What Roza would do,” observed Mr. Gandell decidedly, “is just this.
He’d either dig up some one here who could send messages or he’d make
mighty sure that we didn’t play any tricks on him. Frankly, I don’t
think the scheme would pan out.”

“Guess you’re right, Pete,” said the commander. “Besides, even if we
managed to tell the Navy Department where we are I’m not sure they’d do
anything more than send Roza a note. So long as we aren’t at war――――”

“Then they deserve to lose the ship,” said Mr. Traine disgustedly.

“Maybe, but I don’t! At least, I don’t want to, and I don’t mean to!
Look here, now, here’s another idea. Wait a sec: let me think: maybe it
wouldn’t――――” The commander studied a minute. Then: “I believe it might
work, gentlemen,” he said. “How does this strike you?”

CHAPTER XV

FRENCH LEAVE

It was a wild enough scheme that the commander unfolded, and none who
heard it dared predict success. But all acknowledged that there was a
chance of pulling it off, and, in the end, all agreed to it. Whether
it could be worked depended first of all on whether General Roza would
consent to the repairing of the _F 8’s_ wireless equipment by members
of the crew. If he smelled a rat, as the saying is, and refused to
allow any one aboard there was no hope for it. They went over the
project many times, arranging every detail so far as was possible, and
renewed the discussion after the evening meal had been eaten. In fact,
the subject held them until bedtime, and Jack, for one, found his brain
still busy with it long after sleep should have come to him.

In the morning, as early as he thought advisable, Mr. Weeks made his
way to General Roza’s house and, after a wait of half an hour, secured
an audience. Several of the general’s staff were present, but the
commander was quite satisfied to have them hear his proposal. First
he explained that, contrary to his own judgment, his command were in
favor of making every effort to secure the payment of the fines imposed
on them, without, however, acknowledging the justice of them. General
Roza’s sharp eyes brightened as he nodded commendingly. But, continued
Mr. Weeks, they were all agreed that such a message as the general
proposed sending would have no results. It was necessary that his
government should have the statement of their detention confirmed by
them.

“Of late,” he said, “there have been frequent cases of kidnapping and
arrest of American citizens, with accompanying demands for ransom. And
there have been, also, numerous hoaxes attempted, as the case of an
American named Schalk who disappeared from his hotel in Laredo, Texas,
just over the border, and conspired with three Mexicans to secure a
ransom of ten thousand dollars from my government, which ransom he
proposed to share with the Mexicans. You see, gentlemen, my government
would have no way of assuring themselves that your statement was
correct and truthful. It would be an easy enough thing for any one to
send such a message as you propose and sign General Roza’s name to it.”

The general frowned dubiously.

“But,” observed one of the others, a fat major of cavalry whose chest
was adorned with enough medals to stock a museum, “is it not so that
your Department of the Navy will miss this balloon that you have
unlawfully sailed into our territory? Will it not suppose that you have
been――ah――detained, just as the message will state?”

The commander shrugged lightly. “I think not, sir. Many things may
happen to a dirigible. We might have been blown out over the Gulf, as,
indeed, we were, and lost. We might have run out of fuel or had engine
trouble and been forced to descend at some point beyond communication
by telegraph. There are numerous explanations of our failure to return,
sir, any one of which would be accepted by my superiors in preference
to the real explanation.”

Silence fell. After a moment General Roza asked: “What, then, señor,
would you propose?”

“I had no solution, General, until one of my younger officers, Ensign
Clode, who is our wireless operator, suggested that if a radio message
could be dispatched to an American station perhaps San Antonio or
Brazos――it would be recognized as coming from the _F 8_ and so known as
authentic.”

“I had forgotten that your balloon is equipped with wireless,”
returned the general. “But, señor, how could I know what words you were
sending?” the general smiled craftily.

“The plan was to have one of your own officers do the sending, General.”

“Ah! In such case――――”

“_Un momento!_” interrupted one of the others. “Señor, I have heard
that it is possible to tell from the sound, the loudness, perhaps, of a
wireless message at what distance away it was sent. That is so?”

“In a way, yes. It is possible to say that the sending instrument is
located at from three to four hundred miles, or at from six to eight
hundred, as the case may be, but it cannot be told in what direction.
I see what you have in mind, sir, but one receiving a message from
the _F 8_ would be unable to locate her position with any degree of
exactness. Let me illustrate, please.” The commander picked a pair of
dividers from the table before him. “We will suppose that our message
is picked up at a point here, six hundred miles away. The receiver will
know that it has come from a distance of, roughly, between five and
seven hundred miles. By swinging his compass in this manner, spacing
first at five hundred miles and then at seven hundred, he will describe
two arcs passing from the border of Mexico on the west of him to the
border on the east, or, it may be, to the coast. The _F 8_ may be
located anywhere within the space created by the two arcs, a space some
two hundred miles broad and, perhaps, six hundred miles long. You see,
then, how impossible it is for him to place his pencil anywhere on the
map and say ‘She is here!’ He can only guess, gentlemen.”

The fat major nodded. “He speaks truth. I have so had it explained to
me before. Besides, señors, for that matter, what if the Americans were
able to say where their balloon is? What could they do?” He smiled and
shrugged. “We are not at war with the excellent United States.”

Silence again ensued. Then: “Have we one who knows how to send these
wireless telegraph messages?” inquired the general.

“_Si, si_, the Lieutenant Estabano,” was the reply.

“Then I see no reason why the Señor Comandante’s way is not well,”
said General Roza. He looked inquiringly about the circle. All nodded.
“_Mucho bueno, señor._ So it shall be. Let us now compose this message.”

“I have neglected to tell you, General,” said Mr. Weeks, “that before
our radio outfit can be used some slight repairs are necessary. When
we damaged our rudder we also sustained injury to our wireless
equipment. This could not be remedied during flight, sir, but here the
matter may be speedily attended to. Ensign Clode assures me that two
hours’ work will put the instrument in order again.”

“Ha!” ejaculated the fat major.

“Hum!” said the general. “Indeed?”

The commander’s expression was guileless as he looked inquiringly from
one to the other. “The delay will be trifling,” he said.

“Under strict guard, why not, however?” asked one of the officers.
“Señor, how many would be needed to make these so trifling repairs?”

“I think my two wireless men can do it alone, sir.”

“This Ensign Clode, señor? And one other? Perhaps yourself?” asked the
general carelessly.

“Myself, no,” smiled the commander. “I know little of the instruments.
Mr. Clode and Mr. Gandell are the officers for the work.”

“This Señor Gandell, he is the large, so broad gentleman, _si_, with
the great voice?” inquired the general.

“Yes, that describes him,” agreed the commander.

“Yes? Then I do not understand.” General Roza raised his brows and
smiled blandly. “The young gentleman I met so interestingly on the
train not long ago, Señor Sterling, is it not? He, also, you told me,
is a wireless――what do you say?――_operador?_”

Mr. Weeks did some quick thinking. He did not recall telling the
general any such thing, but he might have done so, and to arouse
suspicion was the last thing he wanted to do. He nodded carelessly.
“Yes, señor, Mr. Sterling is our junior operator. Mr. Clode and Mr.
Gandell are the others. I suggested Mr. Gandell because he has more
experience.”

“Certainly, that is true. And yet this Señor Sterling, I like him. I
think he must be a most clever young man. Señor, do me the favor to
allow Señor Sterling to assist in these repairs. You do not object?”

“Not in the least,” responded the commander heartily.

“That, then, is decided. Is it now that you would begin, señor?”

“The sooner the better, general. Whenever you say, however.”

“_Bueno!_ In an hour, señor, have the gentlemen at the balloon. You
will, I hope, not object that one or two of my young officers attend?
It would be well, perhaps, for them to learn something of this wireless
telegraph.”

“That is quite satisfactory, sir. In an hour, then. General! Gentlemen!”
Mr. Weeks saluted and retired.

Outside, however, his expression of satisfaction diminished, and when
he rejoined his waiting comrades he acknowledged with a wry smile that
the general had out-maneuvered him. “Still,” he added, “we won’t say
die yet. Mr. Clode, are you game?”

“Rather, sir!”

“And you, Sterling?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! We’ve got an hour yet. I want you chaps to sit down here and
listen to what Mr. Jordan and I have to say. If we put this thing
through it’ll be because you remember what we’re going to tell you.
Every one else outside, please, and give the word if any of Roza’s men
approach. I don’t want to be caught talking to Clode and Sterling. I’m
afraid our friend Tito is a bit suspicious already!”

For the better part of that hour the two boys listened while the
commander and Lieutenant Jordan talked. Now and then a question was
asked, but for the most part the older men gave instructions without
interruption. Then Mr. Weeks glanced at his watch and arose.

“That’s all, I think. Keep your heads, boys, and do your best. And
good luck!” He shook hands with each, and so did Mr. Jordan, and then,
Hugh and Jack looking rather thoughtful and serious, they joined the
others outside.

The day was clear and a blue sky, swept clean of clouds, arched from
horizon to horizon. A mild wind blew from the southeast; scarcely more
than a ten-knot breeze. The cracked and flaking mud walls of the houses
along the wide, rambling street were golden in the sunlight. From
the drill ground the call of a bugle floated. At the far end of the
village, southward, the upper part of the _F 8_ was visible, a silvery
sheen above the roofs and discouraged-looking trees. The lazy, sleepy
town went about its business as usual, which is to say that a score of
persons, ragged soldiers, slatternly women, half-clad Indians, were in
sight. Mangey dogs skulked and quarreled.

“Wish we could have started this toward evening,” said Mr. Weeks, “but
he wouldn’t have fallen for it. Well, all ready, fellows? Let’s go!”

Nonchalantly the party turned southward along the sandy street,
leaving the sentry before the hut to doze again undisturbed. Ahead
went Hugh and Jack, at a little distance behind loitered Mr. Jordan
and Mr. Gandell. The others followed still more slowly. The Americans
had become well-known figures in the little town by now and all who
met them gave them greeting, sometimes a muttered word, sometimes a
cheerful “_Buenos dias_,” accompanied by a flash of white teeth. In
front of General Roza’s headquarters, above which a green and yellow
flag with a single white star flapped lazily, several officers were
standing, among them Captain Fosdes and Colonel Rodas.

“Mr. Jordan,” called the commander, “I’ll join you later and see how
you’re getting on. If anything’s wanted let me know. They won’t need
you, Pete.”

Mr. Jordan continued after Hugh and Jack, Mr. Gandell joined the
commander and Lieutenant Traine, who had stopped at headquarters, and
Mate Wason, left to his own resources, thrust his hands in his pockets
and wandered idly on along the village street. The high-voiced bell
above the little church pealed merrily.

In the blue shadow of the _F 8_ a score of soldiers loitered, smoking
their eternal cigarillos, playing cards, dozing. Two dandified young
lieutenants and a saturnine non-commissioned officer were waiting. Of
these only one of the lieutenants spoke enough English to make himself
understood. Lieutenant Jordan remained below, well away from the boat,
while Hugh and Jack, closely followed by the lieutenants, climbed the
ladder to the engine cockpit, and from there went aft to the radio
station.

The dirigible had become an old story in Perdero and no longer aroused
curiosity or interest, and, save for the guard, only a few children and
old men were about. Hugh and Jack went to work in a very business-like
manner, testing, disconnecting, examining, while the lieutenants
lounged about and forever got in the way. When one of the boys went
below to seek a new part or a tool one of the Mexicans went closely on
his heels, a hand on the butt of his revolver.

“Suspicious guys,” murmured Hugh disgustedly to Jack as they leaned
over the bench. At intervals either Hugh or Jack seated himself
and tapped the key. Nothing resulted and they once more set about
disconnecting wires and connecting them up again. In this way more than
an hour passed. The lieutenants were frankly bored. Finally Hugh shook
his head. “We can’t do anything without a piece of heavy copper wire,”
he declared. “And I can’t find any down there.” He called to Lieutenant
Jordan and made the want known.

“Right-o! I’ll see what I can do,” answered Mr. Jordan. “Maybe the
general can scare up something. I’ll go see.”

Pending his return the boys rested, Hugh trying, not very successfully,
to explain to the lieutenants what the difficulty was. Mr. Jordan was
gone nearly a half hour, and when he returned he was accompanied by
Mr. Weeks, Mr. Traine, Captain Fosdes and two more of General Roza’s
officers. Captain Fosdes had somewhere secured a short length of
copper wire, and with this the boys again resumed their efforts. The
dirigible was lying steady, nose to the wind, held fore and aft by her
cables. The forward cable was made fast to a tree, the after one to a
heavy post sunk into the ground. Mr. Weeks and Mr. Traine had sought
the slight shade afforded by the tree, and the Mexican officers had
followed them. Jack, lifting his head from his work, gazed over the
side. Mr. Jordan had joined the soldiers further aft and appeared to be
showing them a card trick. Jack could hear the laughter of the men as
they watched. As he looked he saw Mr. Gandell lounge through the group
and join Mr. Jordan. Jack bent again over the bench until his head was
close to Hugh’s.

“All set!” he whispered.

“How’s your nerve?” asked Hugh.

“All right. I’ll take the skinny one, Hugh.”

Hugh nodded, busy with a screw-driver. “Let’s go,” he muttered.

He tossed the screw-driver down and set his fingers on the key. A
crackling sound rewarded him. The two lieutenants stepped closer,
exclaiming. Hugh stood upright and crossed to the side of the cockpit.
“Mr. Weeks, I think we’ve found the trouble, sir,” he called.

“Good, Mr. Clode! Are you all ready to send?”

“All ready, sir!”

“_Cast off!_”

The commander’s voice rang out sharply and the peaceful scene suddenly
became a turmoil. At the signal, Mr. Gandell and Mr. Weeks sprang
to the cables beside them and slashed with keen knives. For a brief
instant, taken by surprise, the Mexicans only stared. Then cries of
warning filled the air, the officers sprang forward, and the soldiers,
scrambling to their feet, rushed to aid. But the knives were sharp,
and Lieutenants Traine and Jordan, automatics leveled, called a halt.
The forward cable parted with a loud snap, and at the same instant
Lieutenant Gandell’s knife slashed through the last strand of the after
rope. The _F 8_ swung, dipped and began to rise.

In the boat the two lieutenants on guard had sped to the side in alarm
and consternation and were gesticulating and calling wildly. It was
plain that neither had any desire for a voyage in the balloon. Nor, for
that matter, were they to have one, for before the dirigible had fully
realized her freedom they were seized from behind and unceremoniously
dumped overboard. One, in falling, caught a strut leading from the port
engine platform aft to the hull and clung to it for a moment, shrieking
wildly for help. But when the ground began to fall away beneath him he
chose the lesser of two evils and let go. So far as Hugh or Jack could
learn, neither one was injured, but the boys had scant opportunity to
follow their descent. Hugh, having disposed of his man, sprang to the
engine compartment and Jack followed at his heels. It had been planned
that Mr. Weeks and Mr. Jordan were to attempt to get to the ladder ere
it swung from reach, but although the latter, fighting his way through
a mob of the enemy, almost succeeded, and Hugh, leaning down, was ready
to pull him to safety, he failed by an instant. The commander never
had a chance. As the dirigible mounted upward, the two boys, gazing
anxiously down, saw the Americans struggling toward each other, the
excited Mexicans swaying and shouting about them. There was no chance
for shots, for friend and foe were mixed confusedly, but rifle butts
were swinging in air and bayonets were lunging, and honest American
fists were hitting right and left. Not until the dirigible was two
hundred feet or more above the earth did it occur to the foe to turn
their attention to her. Then a shot rang out, followed by a second, and
then by a regular salvo.

“Duck!” shouted Hugh.

Fortunately, the aim of the soldiers was hasty and although the boys
heard the bullets whistle past or thud into the metal hull beneath
them, they went untouched. Gently and yet swiftly the _F 8_ left the
earth behind, straightening her long length to the breeze. The sound of
firing no longer reached them. A silence that held only the whispering
of the breeze fell over the dirigible as, manned only by the two boys,
she floated up and up and up into sunlit space.

CHAPTER XVI

FOUR AGAINST MANY

The carefully planned conspiracy had worked as well as any had dared
to hope for. It had been decided that the commander and Mr. Jordan
were to get aboard if possible, but neither had expected to succeed.
The distance from their posts at the cables to the ladder had been
too great, and that Lieutenant Jordan had so nearly reached his goal
was a tribute to his dexterity in the use of his fists, for it had
been agreed that no shots were to be fired save in defense of their
lives. Mr. Traine and Mr. Jordan had momentarily held the Mexicans at
bay while their comrades had severed the ropes, but, that done, their
automatics had been thrust back into holsters and in the mêlée that
followed their fists alone had served them as weapons. Fortunately for
them, their opponents had no liking for such fighting, and after three
or four of the Mexicans had measured their lengths on the ground the
rest held themselves at respectful distances. Rifles were clubbed or
bayonets were thrust, but the blows usually fell short and, judging
from the occasional howls that arose above the confusion, the bayonets
did more damage to friends than foes. Fighting, step by step the
four Americans drew together, and by the time the dirigible was well
above the earth they were back to back, facing the enemy with leveled
automatics. The Mexicans fell away from them and more than one rifle
was at the shoulder when Captain Fosdes shouted an order. Instantly
the soldiers turned their attention to the escaping dirigible and shot
followed shot. To the four Americans it seemed a miracle that none
of the bullets did apparent damage to balloon or passengers. Perhaps
firing almost straight overhead was too novel a performance for the
soldiers, or perhaps the sunlight bothered them. In either case,
although the fusillade was continued long after any chance of success
remained, and long after the sound of the shots had ceased to reach
the boys in the car, the dirigible mounted upward untroubled, the sun
gleaming on her great silver body. At last the order to cease firing,
many times repeated, was obeyed, and the chagrined officers gave their
attention to the four prisoners. As for the soldiers, the sport of
shooting, even unsuccessfully, at the balloon had restored their
good-temper, and they were laughing and joking merrily now. The loss of
the dirigible meant nothing to them.

But the Mexican officers, six in number, and shortly to be reinforced
by most of the remaining members of the general’s staff, who, hearing
the shooting, were already hurrying toward the scene, were not so
amiable. Captain Fosdes was smiling gently, but the smile was not
cordial, while as for the two young lieutenants who had been so
unceremoniously dumped over the side of the boat, they were fairly
beside themselves with anger. But while all flourished revolvers and
threatened in their choicest Spanish, none seemed inclined to draw the
first shot from the business-like automatics of the little group of
Americans. Doubtless what they said, all talking at once, was quite to
the point, but, since none of the hearers could understand them, they
might just as well have saved their breath.

“Watch the fat one,” said Commander Weeks calmly to the others. “He’s
handling that gun of his too nervously for my happiness.”

“I’ve got him covered,” growled Mr. Jordan. “If he crooks that finger
another fraction of an inch――――”

“They don’t mean to shoot,” said Mr. Traine. “They’d rather have the
money we’ll fetch, what? Great Scott, aren’t they ever going to shut
up?”

Captain Fosdes, who had retained rather more calm than his brother
officers, stepped nearer and addressed the commander in his precise
English, and after a few final sputters the others subsided.

“Señor,” said the captain, “you have performed one of your Yankee
tricks very successfully, but you will regret it. Myself, I admire
courage and smartness, but my general――――” He shrugged his shoulders.
“We shall see! Señors, you are under arrest. Have the kindness to throw
your side-arms on the ground here.”

“Not so fast, captain,” replied Mr. Weeks. “Let’s understand each other
first. What we have done we had the right to do. Our detention was
illegal. We――――”

“Señor, you were tried by military tribunal and your dirigible was
declared confiscate to the government. In conniving at its escape you
made yourself liable to punishment. But I will not waste our time in
talk. Be so good as to deliver your revolvers, señor.”

“Only on condition that we receive fair and respectful treatment,
Captain Fosdes. We will consent to return peaceably to our quarters and
remain there under guard until we are either rescued or ransomed, but
we must have your solemn word of honor that we shall be unharmed and
properly fed during our detention.”

“I have no authority to bargain with you,” replied the captain coldly.
“If you do not yield your arms I will order my men to shoot.”

“Captain, that order would result in unnecessary and regrettable
accidents to you and your friends,” answered the commander sweetly.
“I should not hesitate to shoot you, señor, at the first word of that
command, and my companions will fire just as quickly. If you will
pardon the conceit, Captain Fosdes, we are all very accurate shots.”

The captain did not flinch, but the sense of the commander’s
announcement appeared to have reached the others, and there was a
perceptible desire amongst them to become small and to retire each
beyond another. One, he who Mr. Weeks had disrespectfully termed “the
fat one,” even detached himself from the group and unostentatiously
backed away, followed, however, by Mr. Jordan’s revolver. It was at
that moment that reinforcements arrived. Major Demedina, Colonel Rodas
and a handful of other officers, followed by a fair portion of the
town’s population――much of it was already on the scene――came hurrying
along the street. To the colonel, Captain Fosdes gave a rapid story of
the incident. The eyes of the newcomers grew large as they stared at
the empty space once occupied by the dirigible and from there to the
lessening shape that traveled northwestward against the blue sky. Then
all broke into exclamations of incredulity, of dismay, of wrath. Fists
were shaken, revolvers were drawn. Colonel Rodas became as red of face
as a boiled lobster. Of the number, Major Demedina alone seemed not on
the verge of hysteria, and afterwards Mr. Gandell stoutly affirmed that
he had seen the soldier of fortune laughing heartily! In the end, when
the later arrivals had convinced themselves that the captain really
spoke the truth and that their prize had escaped them, they conferred
at some length, gesturing constantly, darting black looks at the four
Americans, and presently the captain made known their decision.

“Señors, you will return your revolvers to their holsters and proceed
to headquarters. You will not be molested. I give you my word of honor
as an officer and a gentleman. There General Roza will hear your case
and make decision. That is agreeable?”

“Quite, captain,” answered Mr. Weeks. “Your word is sufficient. Our
revolvers will not be drawn unless we are attacked.” Suiting action
to word, the commander returned his automatic to his belt and the
others followed suit. Two-by-two, Mr. Weeks and Mr. Jordan leading,
they started back along the wide, sandy thoroughfare through staring,
unfriendly groups. Already word had been hurried to the general and
when they drew in sight of headquarters a squad of unkempt soldiers
was drawn up in front of the mud-walled house. Beside and behind the
Americans walked the Mexican officers, back of them came the population
of Perdero.

“Have you seen Dan Wason?” asked Mr. Weeks of Lieutenant Traine as they
drew near the general’s headquarters.

“Not a sign of him,” was the answer. “They must have nabbed him.”

“I’m afraid so. If they have, and he failed at his stunt, we’ll soon
know it. The poor old _Fate_ will last about two minutes under fire of
that airplane of theirs!”

“If they give her enough of a start――――”

“They’d catch her, I guess. The most we can hope for is that Wason did
his work before they got him. Maybe it was a crazy plan, after all. I
hate to think of those two kids all alone in that balloon. Even if they
escape the airplane, Ben, they’ll never get over the border. I’m afraid
I’ve done no more than sacrifice their lives without saving the balloon
or helping the rest of us. Maybe the wisest plan would have been to
sit quiet, after all.”

“Don’t you believe it,” answered the other stoutly as they passed
through the group of scowling soldiers outside the house. “And don’t
trouble about the lads, Bob. They’ll make it if it’s possible. They’re
a plucky, long-headed pair, and――――”

Mr. Traine stopped because the commander had laid a detaining hand on
his arm, pausing on the threshold of the house. “Listen!” said the
commander sharply. Above the chatter of the rabble pressed close behind
them sounded the drone of an engine, and even as their gaze sought
the sky above the huts to the east an airplane soared into sight.
Heads turned and a sudden chorus of approval and triumph arose from
the throng. With the sunlight on her yellow wings the airplane banked
and, ever climbing, came speeding overhead, the clamor of her engines
loud in the clear air. Straight into northwest it headed. A hand waved
from the observer’s seat and an answering shout went up from below. At
lightning speed the air craft shot past them. The drone of the engines
died away, the yellow bird-like form melted indistinctly into the
distance. Mr. Weeks sighed.

“It’s all up with the _Fate_!” he muttered.

CHAPTER XVII

PURSUED

From the boat of the _F 8_ the little straggling, mud-walled town
looked like a child’s village of wooden blocks. The dirigible had found
her level at something over three hundred feet above the desert, or,
as the altometer showed, nearly thirty-eight hundred above sea-level.
Perdero lay southeastward a good mile away. The dirigible floated
steadily and on an even keel, her stern planes dead into the wind.

“She’s stopped rising,” announced Hugh. “Let’s try her, Jack.”

Hugh’s engine knowledge was to prove its value now. Together, their
faces showing the anxiety they felt, they passed back into the central
cockpit. Mr. Jordan had instructed clearly and they had striven hard
to remember, but suppose they had forgotten something? Or suppose the
Mexicans had meddled? There had been no opportunity to examine anything
in the engine compartment, for their guards had kept too close a watch
on them. The glances of the boys met and each looked a question.

“Gas supply,” murmured Jack, frowning as he tried to recall the
engineer’s directions.

Hugh nodded. “I know,” he said. “I was only wondering what would happen
if she didn’t start. Well, here’s where we find out. Let’s go!”

Quickly, without hesitation, he attended to gasoline flow and spark.
Then, his mouth set tightly, he pressed the starter of the port engine.
The propeller spun slowly and a whirring sound arose from under their
feet, but the engine didn’t answer.

“Cold, maybe,” muttererd Hugh. “Let’s try more gas.” He swept the
throttle further up. Again he pressed the starter and again the
propeller spun. The boys exchanged anxious looks. And then, with a
sudden sharp explosion in the exhaust, the port engine came to life.
With a gasp of relief Hugh closed the throttle down, and: “Controls!”
he cried.

Jack jumped forward as the dirigible dipped her nose and clutched
the wheel. Slowly the ship came back to an even keel. From outboard
the whine of the port engine made delicious music and the wind came
straight along the hull into Jack’s face as he stood erect to view the
dials in the coxswain’s compartment. In the engine space Hugh was busy
with the long-nosed oilcan which he waved exultantly as Jack looked
back.

“Thirty-six, about,” he shouted, “and running sweetly! Better bring her
around, Jack, and we’ll beat it!”

Jack waved agreement and went forward to the little compartment in
the bow and squirmed into Mr. Gandell’s seat. His heart was jumping
as he laid his hand on the control and turned slowly. At first there
seemed to be no result, but a glance at the compass showed the needle
trembling to the left, and presently, glancing backward and downward,
Jack saw the distant village creep into sight again. When the course
was set due north he turned the rudder control gently back again, and
sighed exultantly. Below, the desert stretched level and monotonous.
Above, the crisp, cloudless blue arched the whole world in. The
wind sung gayly to him. It was none too warm, for the shadow of the
big envelope fell over the boat, and the breeze held a chill. Hugh
called and Jack locked the rudder control and went back to the next
compartment.

“She’s on her course,” he announced proudly.

“Good! Lucky thing we got that rudder fixed, wasn’t it? I’m going to
start the other engine now and give her all she’ll take. I’ll feel
a lot easier when I see the last of that place.” He nodded in the
direction of the village. “I guess Dan fixed their airplane for them,
all right. If he hadn’t it would have been after us long before this.”

“I hope you’re right,” responded Jack, “but we’ve only been up twelve
minutes, and――――”

“Twelve minutes!” echoed the other incredulously. “You’re crazy!”

“Look at your own watch then. We got off at――――”

“Great Scott, Jack, it seems like an hour!” Hugh cast an anxious look
in the direction of Perdero. “It’s too soon to whistle, then, isn’t it?
Well, let’s get a move on!”

“Yes,” Jack agreed, “but if those airmen can get up all the moves we
can make won’t do much good. They can do a hundred and twenty in that
bus of theirs, and we can’t better sixty.”

“Just the same, we’ll give ’em a run,” retorted Hugh.

The starboard engine added its voice to that of the
port and the hand on the small dial moved up and up.
“Forty-eight――fifty――fifty-two――three,” muttered Hugh, watching, his
hand on throttle. “Come on, old girl! Want some more? How’s that?
Fifty-six! That’s the stuff! Gosh, what a roar, Jack! Where’s that
oilcan?” He climbed up on the starboard outrigger and deluged the
throbbing mechanism. “I hope to goodness the grease-cups were well
filled, for I don’t know where they all are and haven’t time to fill
’em, anyway. What’s she doing now?”

“Sixty and a fraction: sixty-one, about.” Jack had to shout to
make himself heard. “You don’t think there’s any danger of busting
something, do you?”

“I think there is, but we’ve got to take that chance. We’ve got a
hundred and fifty miles to do, if they told us the truth back there,
and I propose to cover that before I throttle her down, Jack. Once
over the border those engines may die if they want to, but until then
they’re going to hustle! Controls all right?”

Jack nodded after a glance forward. “I should think it would be safe
enough to swing her east just as sure as we aren’t being chased. We
could reach some place like Laredo, couldn’t we? Or we might make home
if she held out.”

“We’ll take her right back to Camp Stanton, Jack, if it can be done,
but the Old Man’s orders said straight for the border first. And
straight it is. And I’ll be mighty glad to get a look at the old Rio
Grande again! Wish to goodness we might have fixed that radio. Wonder
if I’ve got――――” He thrust a hand into an inside pocket of his coat
and nodded. “All right. I was afraid I might have dropped Weeks’
message out. What do you suppose they’ll do to ’em, Jack?”

“The others?” Jack shook his head soberly. “I don’t know. I don’t like
to think about it. That weasel-eyed little Roza looked to me like a
fellow who’d have the temper of a wildcat if he ever got really angry.
It seems a lot like deserting, doesn’t it, to come off safely while the
rest are facing the music back there?”

“We don’t know that we are safe yet,” answered Hugh dryly. “Anyway,
we’re following orders, old son. I don’t believe Roza will dare do
very much to ’em, Jack. He knows mighty well that we’ll be back again,
and――well, I’d hate to be in his boots if we didn’t find the whole
bunch safe when we got there! He will be ugly, all right; that’s a safe
wager; but, there won’t be any shooting. I dare say he will dump ’em
into that place they call a _cárcel_ and feed ’em on bread and water. I
wonder if any one got hurt in that fracas.”

“Last I could see our chaps were all on their feet,” said Jack. “Jordan
was plowing his way through a dozen greasers, heading for Mr. Weeks and
Mr. Traine, and Mr. Gandell was close behind. I saw Mr. Gandell give
one peachy punch!”

“I didn’t like the way those dirty little villains were jabbing
bayonets around, though. Too bad Jordan didn’t get to us half a second
sooner. I’d feel a heap happier if he were here. I’m not nearly so
cocky as I was about my ability as an engineer. I guess I can feed
the gas and douse on oil, but if anything goes wrong with these
engines――good night! Besides that――――” He broke off abruptly, staring
southward. Then: “Fetch the Old Man’s glasses, Jack, will you?” he
asked soberly. “They’re in one of those lockers at the right of his
seat.”

Jack dived forward and found the binoculars, jerking them from their
case as he hurried back. “See anything?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes, but it may be only a bird or――――” Hugh’s voice dwindled into
silence as he raised the binoculars to his eyes and quickly adjusted
the focus. An instant of suspense followed. Then: “It’s the airplane,
Jack,” he announced. “And she’s hitting on all four! Guess this is
where we say ‘Now I lay me’!”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BATTLE IN THE AIR

Silently the two boys watched the pursuer grow more distinct against
the blue of the sky. At first, without the aid of the binoculars, the
airplane looked like a mere brownish speck, no larger than a bird. Then
it took shape and the sun struck glaringly on the varnished fabric of
its wings. As the moments passed it became gradually larger until they
could see the body plainly.

“She’s overhauling us fast,” said Jack quietly. They had climbed
back to the radio cockpit from where their view of the enemy was
uninterrupted and where the roar and whine of the engines was lessened.
“You might think we were standing still!”

“Yes. At the rate she’s coming she’ll be up to us mighty quick. Guess
Dan couldn’t get at her Which makes it a bit awkward for us. There are
two things we can do, Jack: no, three. We can pull the rip-cord and
make a landing before they catch us and hike for the chaparral. We
might be able to hide out. They couldn’t get the balloon back until
they gassed her up again. Unless they loaded her on trucks; which they
haven’t got.”

“Neither could we get her up again,” said Jack.

“No, and that’s the weak spot in that scheme. We’d either have to stick
around until they came back and collared us or hike for the border. The
border’s a good hundred miles away yet and we’d probably never make it.
We might, but I doubt it.”

“So do I. That scheme’s no good, Hugh. Besides, I’m for sticking to the
_Fate_ until――well, until I can’t!”

“Right-o! I’m with you, old son.”

“What are the other two ways?” prompted Jack as Hugh, watching the
oncoming airplane, fell silent.

“One is surrender and the other is fight,” answered Hugh simply.

“I suppose we’ll have to surrender finally,” said Jack gloomily, “for
that machine gun will fill us full of holes, and we’ve got only our
automatics, but I vote we stick it out as long as we can, Hugh.”

“Atta Boy! And maybe, with luck, we can get one of those guys. Now,
let’s get set. Pull a couple of the parachutes out and lay ’em open.
We may have to drop off. I’ll rummage down below and find some food.
Might as well have some chow while the crowd gathers.”

Five minutes later, back in the engine cockpit, they ate crackers
and canned cornbeef and washed the repast hurriedly down with tepid
water, while, a scant two miles astern, the airplane sailed steadily
in pursuit. The _F 8_ still did her sixty miles, the engines roaring
without a break in their strident voices, but the airplane was
evidently tuned to something over a hundred miles an hour, and the end
of the race was near. They had chosen the midship compartment because
of the added protection of the outboard engines, and beside them lay
their automatics and ammunition. Close by, the parachutes were ready,
the straps spread for quick action. To evade the airplane by any
change of altitude was hopeless, for the dirigible maneuvered slowly.
The pursuer came on some four hundred feet higher, the _F 8_ still
maintaining her level of about three hundred feet above the earth. Hugh
swallowed the last of his food and water, tossed the aluminum cup aside
and picked up his automatic.

“I suppose they won’t give us much chance for potting ’em,” he said,
“but we’ll have a try. They’ll probably come nosing down and rake us
and dodge underneath or swing off again. We’ll have to work fast, old
son.”

“Wonder if they’ll try for us or the balloon,” said Jack.

“Both, likely. If they have good sense they’ll squirt that gun at the
bags, though. All they’ve got to do is to open a few of ’em and we’ll
come to earth without a struggle.”

“Maybe we’d better shoot at their tank instead of at them,” Jack
suggested. “It would be a better target.”

“Ye-es, but they probably won’t come close enough for these things to
penetrate it. I’m for knocking a chip off one of their blocks,” replied
Hugh grimly. “Ready, old son? All set? She’s starting down! Here she
comes! Don’t waste your shots. And keep under cover.”

Straight toward the tail of the dirigible dropped the airplane from
its path a quarter of a mile astern. Looking back under the rear of
the envelope they could see the propeller become visible as the engine
was shut off. In front of the observer the sun glinted on the little
rapid-fire gun and the boys, crouching in the balloon cockpit, awaited
the spurt of steel. It was difficult to judge the distance, however,
for the airplane grew so rapidly in size as it dived that their vision
became confused. And yet, when the face of the man in the observer’s
seat became plain to them and still no bullets sang or spattered, they
wondered. Then it was that a cry of joy arose from Hugh.

“He can’t work it!” he shouted above the engines’ clamor. “It’s jammed!
Dan did for it! Let’s go, Jack!”

Hugh’s automatic crackled, its sound almost lost in the noise of the
engines, and Jack’s followed. But the distance was still too great. As
they opened fire they saw the man behind the machine-gun throw up a
hand and turn his head toward his companion at the controls. Instantly
the airplane dipped, again the engine roared and the machine shot
upward and off to the right, at once lost behind the bulk of the great
envelope. The boys sprang to the side of the boat and peered upward.
For a long moment the foe was hidden from sight. Then she came into
view again, hundreds of feet above them, and swung northward in a
parallel course. Hugh seized the binoculars.

“He’s trying to fix the gun,” he reported. “Jack, if it won’t work for
’em we’re on even terms! Two to two, and automatics, son! We may make
it yet! Beat it for’ard and see that your controls are all right. They
won’t stay there long.”

Jack examined the plane controls, saw that the dirigible had fallen off
her course a point or two and put her back, looked anxiously at the
dials that registered the gas expansion and hurried back to Hugh’s
side. “Everything’s all right,” he reported. “The expansion’s pretty
high, but the valves haven’t discharged yet. Guess we’re getting into
warmer air. Where’s the plane?”

“Still up there. Have a look with the glasses.” Hugh was busy at the
engines with oilcan and waste, half the time suspended over space on
the outriggers. “Last time I looked I could almost hear him blessing
his luck in Spanish! Bet you anything Dan fixed that popgun for keeps.
Probably he didn’t have time to put the airplane out of commission and
so went at the gun. Good old two-fisted Dan! What’s he doing now?”

“Still fussing with it. They’ve slowed down to about our speed. If
they’ll keep off another hour――――”

“They won’t, though. Hello, there’s a bit of a village over there.
Guess we’re getting near civilization. And what’s that bluish streak to
the north and east? Looks like mountains, eh?”

“Sort of. This desert’s getting cut up, Hugh. There’s a big gully down
there, what they call an aroya. And there’s a lot more vegetation.”

“Yes, and we’re a lot more than three hundred feet above it, too, son.
Guess the country’s sloping down toward the Rio. How about dropping a
bit?”

“I’d feel safer up here, Hugh. I’m not sure we could get back if we
had to. We’ll let her stay where she is awhile, I guess. If that line
of mountains or hills, or whatever they are, get in our way we’ll need
every inch of what we’ve got to go over, I think.”

“All right, I’ll leave it to you. Got your eye on the Roza Air Force?”

“Yes. He’s still―― No, he isn’t! He’s either got it fixed or he’s given
it up. They’re coming back, I think!”

“Let ’em come. Might as well get it over with. Look, Jack, there’s
something we haven’t seen for a while!” Hugh pointed over the side
to where, a mile or so away, a man on a burro, followed by two other
burros with packs, crawled across the desert. The figures were tiny,
but, in the clear air, easily distinguishable. A trail of yellow-brown
dust lay behind the traveler. Jack chuckled.

“Bet you he’s asking himself a lot of questions about us,” he said.
“Probably never saw anything like this in life and is scared half out
of his wits!”

“If he has any,” agreed Hugh, wiping his hands and turning his
attention again to the airplane. “Get set, son. Here come the greasers!”

The enemy, although still flying at a safe distance, was gradually
drawing closer. As Hugh spoke the wings tilted and the plane started
down on a long curve that, it seemed, would carry her, if persisted in,
far to the rear of the balloon. But when still several hundred yards
away she straightened out and came directly at the dirigible.

“Is she going to ram us?” cried Jack.

“Not a bit of it! She’ll go over or under. Jack, that gun’s not
working! He isn’t even pointing it! Stand by, old son, and give ’em
what-for!”

There was a breathless moment of waiting. Straight as an arrow sped
the airplane, a yellow-winged, brown-bodied hawk, her nose with its
disc of light where the propeller whirled in the sunlight aimed at
the center of the balloon. Jack stared fascinatedly, his automatic
ready, his heart not far from his mouth. It seemed that the plane must
surely wreck itself against the dirigible in another instant! And then
something sang past him and ripped into the metal hull across the
cockpit, and Hugh’s automatic and his own were speaking, and bullets
spattered against the engine and hull and――the airplane flirted her
tail into air and was gone from sight!

“Other side!” shouted Hugh. They tumbled across the cockpit. A hundred
feet below, the airplane was again leveling out. Hugh’s automatic spoke
and Jack emptied his, leaning far over the turtle-back. A jagged gash
showed in the fabric of a wing, but the plane sped out of range. The
boys reloaded quickly. “What a chance we had!” growled Hugh. “I wish
they’d try that stunt again!”

But now the plane showed discretion and for a moment stood off to the
east as though in flight. “Faking,” said Jack. “She’ll be back!” To
his surprise, he realized that he wanted her to return, that he would
be disappointed if she didn’t. His blood was up now and if it would
have been of any use he would have gladly swung the _Fate_ around in
pursuit! But the airplane had no intention of quitting. She was only
jockeying for a point of attack. By rising a hundred feet or so above
the dirigible she could approach behind the screening bulk of the
envelope and only come into range at the last moment, and to this plan
she maneuvered. Up she climbed, a fair quarter of a mile away, and
then, increasing her speed, swung about at right angles to the _F 8’s_
course. A moment later she was hidden from the sight of Hugh and Jack,
the big silvery bag overhead masking her.

“Watch over there!” directed Hugh. “She’ll come sudden when she comes.
Don’t miss this time, for the love of lemons, Jack! And keep down
yourself!”

The waiting became intolerable. They could get no glimpse of the
airplane. She might be keeping course with the dirigible or swooping
downward. There was no way of telling. Jack, his finger pressing
nervously on the trigger of his weapon, craned his head, his body half
along the port engine platform. Suddenly, above the roar of the engine
close by he heard a new and shriller sound. Then something――a shadow,
a gust of air, he never knew what――warned him, and he raised a shout
to Hugh as he dropped back into the cockpit. He had a perception of
Hugh crossing to his side of the boat, but almost before his shout had
ceased a great yellow vision plunged hurtling into view only a score
of yards away. So close was the enemy plane that he found himself
staring for the fraction of a second into the black eyes of the
foremost occupant. Then, seemingly without volition, instinctively, his
finger pressed the trigger. The roaring of the two engines drowned the
sound of the firing, but Jack knew without hearing, without seeing,
that bullets were flying about him. Side by side for what seemed many
long minutes balloon and airplane traveled, although afterwards Jack
realized that something less than thirty seconds probably elapsed
between the time that the yellow monster ranged alongside and the
moment that it swung wildly outward and bore hesitantly to earth.

In that length of time Jack twice emptied his automatic, always
keeping his straining gaze on the dark-skinned Mexican, who, his small
black eyes aglint, glared back at him wickedly. Once he felt the impact
of a bullet between elbow and shoulder, but there was no sense of pain
nor of dismay. Nor did the wound, if wound it really were, interfere
with his shooting. He was aware that Hugh was crouching beside him,
firing between the edge of the cockpit and the underside of the engine
platform, as he was, but he had no thought for anything save that
sneering face peering from behind the machine-gun mount across the
little space. Of a sudden he saw the head jerk aside, saw the eyes
widen and himself felt a wild exultation. But the hand that held the
pistol steadied again even as the mouth opened to shout a challenge of
hate and defiance unheard in the clamor of the engines. And then the
underbody of the plane heaved into sight, it staggered, veered from its
course, righted itself and suddenly dropped out of range. Fifty feet
below, it seemed to pause but only to again dip from side to side and
again float down toward earth. But now its descent was faster and while
Jack watched over the side, wondering, it crashed to the ground far
below.

CHAPTER XIX

A MESSAGE TO THE HEATHEN

It was all so sudden and, to Jack, at least, so unexpected, that it was
not until the airplane lay, a crumpled mass, far back on the desert,
that speech came to either of the boys. Then it was Jack who spoke.

“Wha――what happened?” he gasped.

“I got him,” said Hugh. “Through the shoulder, I think. Anyway, he fell
over sideways and lost his controls. I――somehow, I hope I didn’t kill
him.”

“Oh, the other man!” exclaimed Jack. “I’d forgotten all about him!
Had we better go back? Maybe they’re badly hurt, Hugh, and we can do
something.”

But Hugh shook his head gravely. “If we landed we couldn’t hold her,
Jack, and maybe we couldn’t get up again. I don’t think either of us
know enough about the game to try it. Besides, they brought it on
themselves and they’ll have to take their medicine. I hate to leave a
wounded man like this, but our orders are to make the border. And that
village we saw can’t be more than ten miles away.”

Hugh had slowed the engines down, but now, having reached his decision,
he speeded up again. Jack was looking back through the binoculars. At
first a cloud of dust and vapor had obscured the wrecked plane, but
presently it lifted and to his relief he saw two figures emerge from
the confusion of twisted wood and metal and tattered fabric. One was
evidently seriously hurt, for the other half carried him away from the
wreck and eased him to the ground.

“They’re both alive, anyhow,” he proclaimed. “I hit the observer chap
somewhere, but I guess I didn’t hurt him much. Your man, though, looks
pretty sick.” He handed the glasses to Hugh and the latter studied the
wreck a moment.

“The fellow on the ground is sitting up,” he announced. “I dare say
it was only a flesh wound. Lucky for them the plane didn’t take fire.
Maybe he turned off the ignition when I got him. Well, they got out of
it pretty well, and we got out of it a heap better. Funny that neither
of us was touched, for I could hear the bullets coming thick. Look at
the holes along here, will you? How the dickens we got by without being
plugged is a blooming miracle, Jack!”

“We――we didn’t,” said Jack apologetically. “That is, I――I got winged, I
guess.” He held his right arm out. The khaki canvas of his wool-lined
coat showed a great dark stain between shoulder and elbow. “It isn’t
much, though. Hardly knew he’d hit me. It――――”

“Get that coat off,” growled Hugh. “Why didn’t you tell me, you silly
chump? Here, give me hold. That’s it! Gee, what a mess! Have to rip the
sleeve up, I guess. Wait till I fetch some water and a bit of gauze.”
He plunged down the little ladder and presently scrambled back into
sight, a roll of gauze in his hand. Quite deftly he cleaned the blood
away from the wound and examined it. “Went right through,” he said
finally. “Look here. You can’t see where it came out, though. But I
can, and you’ll have to take my word for it. You’ll have a lame arm for
a few days, but I guess there’s no great harm done. Does it hurt?”

“Of course it hurts, when you squeeze it like that, you crazy loon!
Quit it!”

“Have to do that to clean it,” answered the other, grinning. “Hold
still! Say, there’s some antiseptic solution somewhere aboard. Now
where is it? I know! Hold that gauze there a minute.”

Five minutes later the wound was neatly dressed and bandaged, and when
Jack had carefully donned his coat again a loop of gauze was tied about
his neck and the arm placed in it. “See that you keep it there, too,”
ordered Hugh sternly.

“But I can’t use it!”

“Who wants you to use it? Haven’t you any sense? Look here, I’m the
ship’s doctor and what I say goes!”

“Who made you doctor?” grumbled Jack.

“I did. As commander of the ship I can make myself anything I please,
old son. Just you remember that. And I can put you in irons, too, if
you don’t behave yourself. Now you keep that arm where I’ve put it; at
least until to-morrow; and hustle for’ard and look at your compass. Bet
you a million pesos we’re headed south instead of north!”

But they weren’t. The _F 8_ was evidently a craft to be trusted, for
in spite of happenings that might have made any dirigible nervous and
caused it to fall off its course the _Fate_ had plugged along without
a tremor, attending strictly to its business of getting there! By this
time the wrecked airplane was only a spot in the sunlit distance, and
not even that to the naked eye. The desert was rapidly changing its
character. Acres of close-growing chaparral and clumps of fat, stunted
trees clothed the ground. Aroyas and dry washes took the place of the
former monotonous flatness, and all the time the earth was gradually
falling further and further away from the balloon. Northeast by east
the hills that they had sighted earlier were now quite plain, a long
barrier stretching from southeast to northwest, some forty miles away.
The distance was Hugh’s guess: Jack would have placed the range much
nearer. Pale blue, with pockets and streaks of a darker shade, the
mountains showed to the crew of the dirigible. At their feet lay a
valley, and from where the _F 8_ flew the land descended slowly to its
floor. The scene, viewed from their elevation, was really beautiful,
the first scene, according to Hugh, that merited that description. But
it was far less the beauty of the view than the evident fact that the
range of low mountains did not reach far enough to the west to dispute
the progress of the dirigible that pleased Jack. Ahead of them lay, so
far as they could yet determine, only gradually descending country,
flat save for occasional dry water-courses and outcroppings of rock.
And the map that they had recourse to verified their vision. Only one
small settlement was indicated on the line of their flight, and that
lay close to the river. It was for sight or signs of the latter that
they strained their eyes now, but the air had lost its clearness and
visibility was lessened, and at twenty minutes before two, the _F 8_
then having logged 112 miles, the Rio Grande was still hidden. There
had been, all along, a discrepancy between the Mexicans’ estimate of
the distance to the nearest point on the border and that of their
maps. At Perdero the distance had been variously stated as from one
hundred and ten miles to one hundred and thirty, whereas, if Perdero
was correctly placed on the military maps the actual distance was
nearer a hundred and fifty. If, as Hugh pointed out, a hundred and
fifty was right, they ought to sight the river by two o’clock. It was
shortly after he had made this hopeful statement that Jack gave a cry
and pointed over the port side. There, far below and well eastward,
the afternoon sunlight sparkled on water, and presently, aided by the
glasses, they were able to follow the stream northward for some miles.
The river was not the Rio Grande, however, but a small, tributary
stream. Nevertheless, sight of it brought encouragement, for the map
showed that it flowed into the larger river but twenty miles away.

They sailed directly over a village a few miles further on and could
see the excitement that their appearance was causing, even though the
_Fate_ was now well over two thousand feet up. The country beneath
showed much cactus and, along what in the rainy season were apparently
water-courses, much vegetation. But for the rest it was dry and
unprofitable looking. Here and there a small plantation made a patch
of green and now and then a peon’s hut showed like a dull drab speck.
Roads wandered uncertainly beneath, losing themselves in jungles of
chaparral or on bare and rocky hillsides.

Just before two the starboard engine showed signs of overheating, and,
since American soil was near and high speed no longer necessary, Hugh
shut it off and ran on the port engine alone, making just under thirty
miles. It was a moment after that Jack, gazing eagerly forward from
the cockswain’s seat, caught his first glimpse of the Rio Grande, far
to the northeast. He pointed it out to Hugh and even as they looked
the river appeared again directly ahead at a distance of ten or a
dozen miles, its course now easily followed by the marching lines of
vegetation.

“Hurray!” cried Hugh. “There’s the little old U. S. A. again, son!
Don’t she look good?”

“I’ll say she does!” agreed Jack fervently, although as a matter of
fact the country beyond the distant river looked no different from
that above which they were flying; and it would have required a lot of
patriotism to see anything attractive in the latter! But the sight of
the arid land across the wide, nearly dry river bed meant that they
had succeeded in their undertaking, and so it appeared to the two boys
a veritable Promised Land, and they indulged in a good deal of cheering
and self-congratulation in the next few minutes. They were still
laughing and joking when Hugh gave an exclamation and pointed down over
the side.

Below them, little oblongs against the parched green of the plain, lay
several buildings of what appeared to be corrugated iron sheeting.
Above them a flag hung limply on a pole, too limply to show its colors.
About the buildings tiny brownish specks moved excitedly, like ants
about a disturbed ant-hill. At a short distance from the cluster of
shacks a number of the specks had congregated, and even as the two boys
looked puzzledly down, there was a puff of whitish vapor there and, a
moment later, a faint report.

“Why, the dirty little greasers are firing at us!” cried Hugh
indignantly. “What do you know about that? Gee, I wish I had a couple
of bombs! I’d like to drop ’em and see those rascals run!”

“Do you mean that’s an anti-aircraft gun they’ve got?” exclaimed Jack.

“Sure as you’re an inch high! I suppose they call that thing a fort,
eh? Wonder how near they got to us. There she goes again! Say, maybe
it’s a good thing we didn’t come down when I suggested it!”

“Yes, and if you’ll take my advice,” answered Jack uneasily, “you’ll
start the other engine and get out of here. I don’t know how far that
thing can shoot, but two thousand feet ought to be easy for it!”

“Maybe you’re right, old son. And why not swing her off toward the east
there and follow the bend of the river? As for their ever hitting us,
though, they couldn’t do it in a thousand years.” Nevertheless, the
starboard engine was speedily adding its roar to that of the other,
and, with the rudder swung to port, the dirigible turned lazily, as
though scorning such foolish doings, and headed her red-white-and-blue
nose into the east. Whether the shells fired from the fort came near
enough to endanger the balloon the boys never knew, for, look and
listen as they might, they saw nothing of them, and shortly the _F 8_
had left the menace well behind. Once out of possible range, Hugh again
shut off the starboard engine and, traveling steadily at slightly under
thirty miles an hour, the big dirigible followed the winding course of
the Rio Grande, at that part scarcely more than a muddy apology for a
river.

“Watch for a patrol or any sort of a station on the American side,”
directed Hugh when, the balloonets having been partly deflated, the
dirigible sailed some three hundred and fifty feet above the treetops.
“I’ll write some messages and we’ll drop them the first chance we get.
The sooner they get word at Camp Stanton the better, and it’ll take us
six hours to get to Fort Phillips at this speed.”

“Phillips!” exclaimed Jack. “But I thought we were going to make Punta
Rio!”

“We were――if we could, son, but have you had a look at the gasoline
gauge?” Jack shook his head. “Well, I have. We’ve got enough in the
tanks to make Punta Rio, if we run like this on one engine, but Punta
Rio’s a good five hundred miles from here and, at thirty miles an hour,
it would take us until eight o’clock to-morrow morning to get there,
always supposing we can keep aloft that long.”

“Why can’t we?” asked Jack.

“Maybe we can, but suppose we can’t? How’d you like to tell the C. O.
that you brought the balloon back safely as far as Tie Siding or Chile
Concarne or some other place along the American side and then let it
go dead? No, sir, Jack, we can make a fine triumphal arrival at Fort
Phillips and report by wire, and I don’t want to take any chances
on wrecking the old jitney by trying too much. I’d like landing
nonchalantly in front of Number 6 Shed as well as you, old scout. I’ve
got a perfectly corking picture of myself climbing carelessly out and
flecking the dust from my sleeve and saying, ‘Walk her in, boys. I’m
through with her!’ And there’s no denying that you’d make a wonderful
hit with that arm of yours in a sling, when you faced the C. O. _But_
I’m for safety first, son, me!”

Jack grinned. “All right,” he said. “Get busy with your pencil then.
There ought to be some of the doughboys along here somewhere.”

“More likely the Eighth Cavalry, I guess. Get your map and set her
course for Fort Phillips, Mr. Sterling.”

“Ay, ay, sir!”

“And keep that arm where I put it!”

“It is!”

“Yes, but you keep jiggling it around. Let’s see that chart. There’s
Phillips. Make your course northeast three-quarters east.”

“Get out of my station! You belong aft with the engines, you oily,
dirty swab! Say, isn’t that something ahead there?”

“Where? I see. Yes, a ranch house, I guess. Don’t see anything alive
around it, though. Guess it’s deserted. We won’t waste a message there.
By the way, can you wigwag?”

“No.”

“Neither can I, worse luck. If one of us could we might make ’em
understand that we were dropping a message. I’m going to learn that
stuff the first chance I get. Well, keep your eyes open, old son.”

“You get those messages written and stop worrying about me, Hughie.
Say, how’d it do to wrap the message around a bolt or something? There
are a lot of bolts and nuts and things in the hole.”

“That’s what I intended doing,” answered the other sweetly. “Either
that or letting you jump over with it!”

Ten minutes later Hugh reappeared again in the forward cockpit. “I’ve
made three copies,” he said. “How does this sound? ‘To the finder:
Report me to Naval Aviation Base, Punta Rio. Making Fort Phillips.
Commander Weeks and Officers Gandell, Traine, Jordan and Wason held
prisoners by General Roza at Perdero, Coahuila. Have commander’s report
to Rear Admiral Thomas aboard. Clode, Ensign, commanding.’ All right?”

“Sounds great,” said Jack. “Only you ought to have put Traine before
Gandell, you mutton-head. Gandell’s only junior grade.”

“What’s the odds? Anyway, it’s too late to change it now because,
unless my eyes deceive me, there’s a town or something ahead there.”

“Of course there is. Look at the chart, ‘Clode, Ensign, Commanding.’”

“You’re envious, old son. That’s right: Tiamina. Never heard of the
metropolis before, though. And those must be the Santiago Mountains
beyond there, eh? Sure to be soldiers at Tiamina. Maybe there’s a post
there. We’ll slow down and make ’em understand that we’re dropping a
message and not a pocket handkerchief. I’ll find a hunk of iron or
something.”

“Yes, and be careful you don’t drop it on some one’s head,” laughed
Jack.

The approach of the _F 8_ caused great and visible excitement in the
little village. Long before the dirigible floated above the first of
the Mexican huts that bordered the settlement the population of the
place, to the last dog and chicken, was gaping upward. You could have
counted the inhabitants without getting into three figures, however!
Hugh, standing in the second cockpit, waved and motioned, and every
man, woman and child below waved enthusiastically back. Of anything
approaching military appearance, however, there was a total lack. No
one in uniform showed down there. With the single engine throttled well
down, the _F 8_ floated slowly and impressively over the village, Hugh
still seeking to convey the information that the white thing he held in
his hand was a message to be read. In spite of the fact that his voice
would scarcely be heard below, he shouted at the top of his lungs and
got very red in the face about it. And the more he waved and shouted
the more the inhabitants of Tiamina waved and shouted back, moving
along in the shadow of the big balloon as delighted and joyous as a lot
of children.

“Oh, they’re crazy!” said Hugh in exasperation. “Bet you a dollar if I
drop this they’ll try to throw it back!”

Jack was doubled up with laughter. “Well, d-d-drop it and s-s-see,” he
called back.

Hugh grunted, hesitated and at last let the message go. Fortunately,
none of the villagers were directly beneath, for the sheet of paper was
carefully wrapped about a six-ounce steel nut. A score of eager hands
sought to pick it up, and for a moment there ensued a mild riot in the
sleepy main thoroughfare of Tiamina. At last a man who might have been
Mexican or American or Tierra del Fuegoan for all they knew, was seen
to emerge with the property proudly in hand. His first act was to wave
politely with his straw hat. After that the throng closed in around him
and he was lost to view.

“I suppose he’ll take it home and put it on the mantel as an ornament,”
growled Hugh. “Did you ever see such a bunch of dubs?” He gazed back
at the sleepy village and scowled. They were still waving, those who
were not striving for a view of the mysterious package dropped from the
wonderful airship. “For the love of lemons, stop your idiotic laughing!”

“I――I can’t help it,” gurgled Jack. “It was so funny!”

“Huh!”

“And――and the funniest part of it,” added Jack, “is that there probably
isn’t a single, solitary one of them who can read English!”

Hugh’s jaw dropped. “Gee, I never thought of that!” he muttered.

CHAPTER XX

THE “FATE” COMES HOME

“I thought we had the border patrolled,” scoffed Hugh somewhat later.
“We haven’t seen a patrol since we crossed. No wonder Roza finds it
dead easy to make his raids!”

“Hm,” Jack commented. “Ever consider that there are some thirteen or
fourteen hundred miles of said border, sonny? Putting patrols even a
quarter of a mile apart would take somewhere around five thousand of
them.”

“Well, what of it? We’ve got that many in the army, haven’t we? I
should think that would be better than letting Roza and the other
bandits run across whenever they like and steal everything in sight!”

“I guess we’re not as fast asleep as it looked,” answered Jack.
“There’s a plane coming.”

“About time,” grumbled the other. “If we were one of Tito Roza’s
outfits we could have bombed a couple of villages and got away without
hurrying. That’s a De Haviland, old son. I trained in one of those at
Pensacola. Wish we could get a message to them. I don’t believe those
chumps back there at Tiamina will do anything with that message but
look at it.”

“We might try the megaphone,” Jack suggested.

“No good. The engine sounds would drown it. And they won’t dare come
very close, I guess.”

Nor did they. The flyers swept down from the northeast, probably from
Fort Phillips, and, keeping at a respectful distance from the big
aircraft, circled and waved, the observer standing up and putting much
gusto into his greeting.

“Guess they had us down as lost,” said Hugh, “and the fellow is saying
‘Welcome Home.’” The boys waved back and the airplane shot away again
toward the west as it completed its circle. Soon after a squad of
cavalry was sighted some three or four miles northward, but it was
decided not to change the dirigible’s course in order to give them a
message since, as Jack pointed out, they were probably further from a
telegraph or telephone than the _Fate_ was. For some time they skirted
the southern foothills of the mountains that lie jumbled together in
the Big Bend country, on several occasions having to alter their course
rather than try for more elevation. The sight of a railroad following
the winding course of a small river brought from Hugh the remark that
it looked like they were at last back in civilization. There were small
towns along the line of the shining rails and a second message was
dropped, this time with more prospect of attention. The passing of the
dirigible occasioned little interest, so far as they could see, but
their message was rescued from the roof of what appeared to be a livery
stable, and, since there was a telegraph office there, they concluded
that Fort Stanton would soon learn of the _F 8’s_ safe return. It was
close on six o’clock when they crossed over the Pecos River at a point
some fifty miles north of the border, and nearly eight when, in the
lingering twilight, they sighted Fort Phillips. News of their arrival
had evidently preceded them, since when, with engine throttled low and
the balloon making scarcely more than headway into a light easterly
breeze, they nosed down toward the big landing field west of the long
line of hangars, a force of groundmen awaited and the big searchlights
were focused on them. That, to Hugh and Jack, was trying work. There
were acres of space in which to land, but it was all new stuff to them
and they were horribly afraid that they would make a mess of it. They
had remembered in time to splice new cable onto the forward and aft
guys, and these they dropped long before the dirigible was near the
ground. Fortunately, the planes answered the controls perfectly and
after many minutes of misgivings and nervousness the _F 8_, with engine
running idle, came to a halt, her cables manned and the boat swinging
just above ground. Hugh shut off the engine and sank on to the bench.

“_Gee!_” he gasped.

“I’ll say so, too,” said Jack fervently.

“Toss the ladder over,” muttered Hugh meekly. “Some one’s jabbering
down there.”

Jack obeyed, and a grizzled major whose jacket bore the Army Aviation
Corps insignia popped his head over the side.

“Who’s in command here?” he asked.

“I am, sir,” answered Hugh, getting his feet under him again. “Ensign
Clode.”

The major scrambled into the cockpit. “Glad to meet you, sir! My
congratulations. Quite a trip, you must have had. My name’s Warren;
Aviation.” He shook hands heartily with Hugh and then with Jack. “We
got word from Camp Stanton about an hour ago that you were coming and
so we got ready for you. Understand the Navy had given you up for lost.
Must have quite a yarn to spin. Soon as you’re ready I’ll show you
over to the quarters. Got some food waiting over there for you, my
boys.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hugh gratefully. “Food’ll taste pretty good to
us. Jack, see that everything’s all right for’ard, will you? Have you
any way of anchoring this ship, sir?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Clode, but we’ve got two infantry details to look
after her until morning. There are orders for you at quarters. Rather
think they expect you to take the balloon on to Punta Rio.”

“I hope not,” replied Hugh. “I’ve had enough for awhile. These things
weren’t made for two men to sail.”

“I should say not! Guess we can give you some help, though. That you,
Lieutenant? Come aboard. Meet Ensign Clode, Lieutenant Groat; and
Ensign Sterling. If you’re ready we’ll go across.”

“What about riding lights, Hugh?” Jack asked.

“Blessed if I know. Guess you’d better switch ’em on, though. No chance
of a wind to-night, is there, Major?”

“No, no fear of that. There hasn’t been a cupful of breeze since the
storm that you chaps got into, and no prospects yet. All right now?
After you, Lieutenant.”

The boys found a warm and admiring welcome awaiting them in the
officers’ quarters, and, after a doctor had attended to Jack’s wound,
such a meal as they had not enjoyed for many days. Major Warren and
the dozen or more officers who had flocked from all points of the
fort left them to themselves during the meal and they were able to do
full justice to it without having to make apologies. Afterwards Hugh
received and initialed for a copy of the orders addressed to him from
headquarters at Punta Rio.

“Clode, Ensign, commanding S. D. _F 8_; Congratulations. Afford
all information regarding detention of your officers to Commanding
Officer Fort Phillips. Report at once whether _F 8_ is fit for further
immediate service. If so can you bring her here with aid of working
crew from Army Aviation Corps and how soon? Thomas, R. A.”

Hugh handed the orders to Jack. “What about it?” he asked. “Want to try
to make home, old son?”

“Sure! With a couple of these fellows to help, and some more gasoline,
we can do it, can’t we?”

“I think so. We’ll try it, anyway. I’ll get an answer off and see the
C. O. Want to come along?”

“Not unless you need me. You can tell the yarn better than I can. All
I want now is about ten nights’ sleep!”

But if Jack thought he was to escape without telling his story he was
much mistaken. The officers allowed Hugh to get away, but they nailed
Jack, sat him in a comfortable chair out on the wide veranda, drew
close and told him to get at it! And so Jack, fighting off sleepiness,
told the story of the _Fate’s_ journey from start to finish to a much
interested audience. And when he had ended he had many questions to
answer. Some of the younger officers expressed fear as to the fate of
Lieutenant Commander Weeks and his companions, but Major Warren, who
had fought along the border before entering aviation, was optimistic.

“That Roza hombre has plenty of sense,” he said. “Some of those
fellows, half-breeds, most of ’em, might start shootin’, but Roza
knows we’d get him sooner or later if he tried that game. What he’ll
do is break camp and hide out somewhere in the hills, taking his
prisoners along with him. We’ll have to find him. That’ll be our part
of the game, gentlemen. I wouldn’t wonder if some one had to pay those
ransoms, either. That’s a fierce country down there when it comes to
finding any one who doesn’t want to be found! Look at the time we had
trailing Villa!”

“Think they’ll leave the job to us, Major?” asked a young lieutenant.

“No, they won’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if they dumped a couple of
regiments of cavalry over the line. Of course the Navy Aviation fellows
have the first call, and they won’t let us in on it unless they have
to. But I guess they’ll have to. We’re two or three hundred miles
nearer than they are, you see, and quick action’s going to count. Guess
some of us’ll be going up on S. D. to-morrow!”

“Hope so!” said one of his hearers, and others grunted agreement.

More discussion followed, to which Jack listened sleepily until Hugh
returned. After that, with Hugh there to attend to conversational
demands, Jack settled down in his chair and relapsed into a delicious
state that was neither waking nor sleeping and into which the talk
flowed in soothing murmurs. He was never fully and entirely awake again
until morning.

The _F 8_ cast off at 6:10, Hugh at the engines and Jack in the
cockswain’s seat. With them went three young officers of the Army
Aviation Corps, highly delighted with the adventure. None of the latter
had had balloon training, but all possessed sound common-sense and a
general knowledge of aëronautics. The dirigible found her level at
slightly over two hundred feet, for her buoyancy was low owing to
depleted balloonets; and helium gas was not to be had nearer than Punta
Rio. But a study of the map showed that an elevation of two hundred
feet would carry them safely over all obstacles. Jack swung her nose
southward toward the river and when that was reached its course became
the general course of the balloon. They had to buck a southeast breeze
that grew fairly stiff as they neared the coast. Hugh started out with
the starboard engine, but at the end of the first hour it developed
sounds that he didn’t like, and he shifted to the port. Eventually he
was obliged to alternate them for brief stretches, as neither worked
smoothly and the troubles were beyond his knowledge. He managed,
nevertheless, to average just over thirty-two miles an hour, and,
greeted with acclaim at every town they flew over, they sighted the
radio towers at Punta Rio shortly after seven o’clock. An hour later
the _F 8_ was once more back in her shed and the amateur navigators had
delivered Lieutenant Commander Weeks’ dispatch to Rear Admiral Thomas
and were doing justice to a late supper in the officers’ mess-hall.
Afterwards they made their way back to headquarters and found a
good-sized audience awaiting them. Spreading a map of Northern Mexico
on the table, Rear Admiral Thomas asked them to indicate as nearly as
they could the location of Perdero. To their bewilderment they found
the word set down a good thirty miles north and east of where it should
have been placed according to their belief. “Don’t let that bother
you,” they were told. “There isn’t a map of Mexico that isn’t chock
full of errors. I saw one once that showed Mazatlan nearly a degree
north of where it belonged! Point out where you believe Perdero to be,
Mr. Clode.”

“About here, sir,” said Hugh, after some study. He glanced inquiringly
at Jack and the latter nodded confirmation. The admiral marked the spot
with a pencil. Then, while the other officers and the boys looked on,
he plotted distances with a pair of dividers. At last:

“Call it an even four hundred miles in a direct line,” he said. “Seven
hours, we’ll say, for the F Class ships, four hours for the planes. You
told me, I think, that your engines were not working properly to-day,
Mr. Clode. Do you know what the trouble was?”

“No, sir. I――I’m not enough of an engineer to be able to say.”

“Naturally. Well, never mind. We’ll get a report soon. Now tell us what
military resources you believe this General Roza to have at or about
Perdero. Sit down, please. There are several things Commander Weeks
doesn’t tell in his dispatch that we ought to know.”

At the end of an hour the ordeal ended. “Now you two had better turn
in,” advised the admiral. “Get all the sleep you can. You may have
a busy day to-morrow. And, by the way, it would be a good plan to
telegraph your folks that you’re all right. The papers have been rather
full of the _F 8’s_ disappearance and I’m afraid the impression got out
that she was lost.”

“Guess she was,” observed one of the officers, “but she found herself
again! Anything from Washington yet?”

“No, but I’m expecting a message every minute and―――― What’s that,
Griggs? Oh, you’re decoding it now. Good! Just a minute, gentlemen, and
we’ll see what the verdict is. Sound promising so far, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Griggs looked across from under the green-shaded
drop-light at his desk and smiled. “Discreet but――promising, sir.”

“Hope so, I’m sure. Can’t let that brigand get by with this last
outrage. Besides, those officers too good to lose. One of our best,
Weeks. Traine’s another, eh? Ah, thank you, Griggs. Hm!” The admiral
set his glasses half-way down his long nose and swung to the light. As
he read the others leaned forward a little in their chairs, perhaps
without realizing it. After an instant of silence the admiral chuckled.
Sympathetic smiles appeared. Some one cleared his throat.

“Here we are, gentlemen. ‘The Department believes that the entry into
Mexico of any military expedition at this present critical stage of
negotiations would be unwise, and your request is therefore denied.
This decision should not, however, be held to prohibit the dispatch of
unarmed aircraft into territory controlled by anti-Federal forces for
purposes of observation if in your judgment such action is advisable.
In such case you are directed to strictly prohibit the use of arms save
in defense of life or property. Re A N 161: The matter of payment of
fines levied against certain officers of Scout Dirigible _F 8_ under
restraint at Perdero, State of Coahuila, Mexico, referred to Department
of State. Pending a decision it is believed that the Department will
duly enter into negotiations for the release of the officers in case
other means of persuasion fail.’”

There was a moment of silence. Then some one laughed softly. “Sort of
contradictory, isn’t it? We’re allowed to send unarmed aircraft and to
use arms only in defense!”

The admiral nodded, smiling. “Sort of,” he conceded. “But the ‘kick’ is
at the end of it, Tom. ‘In case other means of persuasion fail.’ Get
that?”

“By Jove, I didn’t! Well, then――――”

“Surest thing you know! Start at five-thirty if they can get the _F
8_ in trim by that time. The _9_ had trouble with her machine-gun
mounting, and maybe it’ll be the same with the _8_, but we’ll start
them off the moment she’s in shape. Fallen’s working two shifts on her
and I guess he will get her ready.”

“Planes, too?” one of the officers inquired.

“Five. Ought to be enough, eh?”

“Well, yes,” replied the other dryly, “for a purely observational
expedition that ought to answer!”

The admiral chuckled again. “Wish I were going myself! Well, I think
that is all to-night. Captain Tweed, I’d like to see you a few minutes,
please. Yes, Mr. Clode?”

“Beg pardon, sir,” stammered Hugh, “but are we――could we――er――we’d like
to go, sir, if we might! On the _Fate_, sir.”

“I don’t see how you can get out of it, Mr. Clode,” answered the
admiral gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye. “You haven’t been
detached, have you? Thought not! Well, that’s that!”

Jack found mail awaiting him, and, although it was already getting
on toward ten o’clock, he stayed up and wrote a long letter to his
folks. Then he and Hugh climbed into their bunks, but not to sleep.
Envious and curious young luffs and ensigns demanded a recital of the
_F 8’s_ adventures, and even after they had gone away again sleep
refused to come to the boys. For his part, Jack was much too excited by
the prospect of the morrow’s expedition. But some time after midnight
slumber claimed them. Then it seemed but a minute later that they
were awakened in the slatey darkness to grope for their uniforms and,
dressed, seek the mess hall for coffee and eggs and scorched toast
served by yawning attendants. It was still half dark when they hurried
out in the coolness of the before dawn hour and made off for Number 6
Shed as fast as their legs would carry them. Ever since becoming fully
awake they had been haunted by the direful possibility of the _Fate_
sailing without them!

But they were spared that disappointment. Big and black and formless
against the dark sky, the mammoth airship was already out, tugging
gently at her cables in a wispy breeze from the southeast. Vaguely,
as they drew near, they could distinguish the rows of groundmen at
the ropes. Suddenly the darkness further along the row of sheds was
dispelled by a flood of white light, and looking that way under the
suspended shadow that was the _Fate_ the boys saw the big nose of the
_F 9_ move into sight. The flood-lights threw the great envelope into
black relief as it emerged slowly from the hangar, and the lines of
groundmen, shuffling across the trampled earth, sent queer grotesque
shadows scampering across the ground. Finally the airship was out, and
when the tail was free of the building the lights went off as suddenly
as they had come on, and darkness again enveloped the scene.

The boys made their way to the _Fate’s_ boat, hanging just clear of the
earth. Two of their companions of the voyage were already on hand, and
the four made themselves known to each other. The eastern sky showed
a pale band near the horizon and the stars overhead began to lose
their brilliancy. Hugh held his wrist watch close. “Five-three,” he
announced. Two other officers came toward them through the deceptive
gloom. Overhead, the big bag creaked and rasped. The low voices of the
men at the ropes, and the occasional shuffling of their feet, were the
only other sounds in the gray-black silence.

“All here?” asked the commander as he joined the little group about the
ladder. “Let’s get aboard then.” He led the way, the others following.
Lights sprang into sight in the cockpits, at nose and tail, at port
and starboard. The engineer officer turned his engines over slowly
for a minute. Controls were again tested. In the radio cockpit Hugh,
“earmuffs” on, tapped and listened. Men climbed the ladder to confer or
report. The minutes went slowly. The eastern sky showed a flush of pale
rose. From their station the boys could now see well to the bow of the
boat. The _F 9_, a hundred yards further afield, no longer looked like
a silhouette cut from black paper, but was rounded and grayish. Her
running lights flashed wanly in the coming dawn.

“Five-twenty-five,” announced a voice forward. “All ready, down there?”

“All ready, sir!” answered a voice from the earth.

Interminable moments of waiting. Then the clear call of a bugle at the
far end of the camp, taken up nearer at hand. A blaze of golden glory
touched the edge of the sea.

“Cast off!”

CHAPTER XXI

FOR PURPOSES OF OBSERVATION

Almost due west sailed the two dirigibles, their engines humming
stridently. Behind them the world brightened momentarily with crimson
and gold, ahead the gray night was fleeing fast. Seventeen hundred feet
above the flat world passed the ships, the _F 8_ showing the way, the
_9_ following a half-mile astern. The river came into sight, a pale
copper flood between its shadowed banks; a sleeping town, tiny squares
and angles, passed beneath. The railway caught the early sunlight, and
gleamed and flashed from its polished steel. Another village, then the
Rio, crossed at an angle, and then Mexico. The world below lost its
neutral tint of gray and changed to shades of tan and green. The sky
overhead became blue. The belly of the envelope took on a wonderful
sheen of pinkish silver. The air grew warmer.

Hugh laid his “earmuffs” aside and motioned Jack to the seat. “It’s
great to have the thing working right again,” he said, stretching his
arms. “There’s a lot of jabbering going on this morning. The Tampico
station is as chatty as you please. Wish I knew enough Spanish to tell
what they’re saying. Get ’em?” Jack nodded. “The chap who’s sending
down there is no dub, either. Got a good punch, he has. Hello, there’s
a railroad train right under us, going south; and a bunch of villages;
one every mile or two, it looks like. Might be the Main Line out of
Philadelphia! Wish we were close enough to see what they’re thinking
about us down there. Funny they don’t do some of that firing at us they
promised.”

Jack picked up his pencil and began to write, and Hugh leaned over his
shoulder and read the message as he set it down.

“Code, eh? That’s Thomas. Bet you the old boy would have given a lot to
have come along with us. Here, I’ll take it up.”

Presently he was back with an answer and Jack flashed it off. Then the
_9_ asked for the commander on the telephone. And so it went, the two
radio boys taking turns at the bench. The morning wore away. At eight
there had been coffee and sandwiches, and now, at half-past ten, more
coffee was served. They had crossed the boundary between Nuevo Leon and
Coahuila and were up around twenty-five hundred feet. In the southwest
a heavy bank of clouds was lying, but the rest of the sky, save for a
haziness along the horizon, was clear. Far below, the town of Monclova
passed and low mountains showed to the south and west. Shortly after,
word came from the _F 9_ that she was having trouble with her starboard
engine and would have to slow down. In consequence, the _Fate_ shut off
her port engine and for more than a half-hour the two ships kept to a
twenty-six mile speed.

It was after eleven-thirty when the airplanes were sighted. They
appeared first as infinitesimal specks far to the east, specks that
swam vaguely in and out of vision, but rapidly they took on form and
substance, and at noon were only a few miles astern, five gray biplanes
traveling in battle formation like a flight of giant geese. Soon Hugh
picked up the first telephone call from the leader and presently the
planes, flying several hundred feet above the dirigibles, passed
westward. When they had gained a half-mile lead they slowed to the
sixty-mile speed that the balloons had again returned to, and in such
fashion, strung out over a length of more than a mile of air space, the
expedition came to the eastern edge of the desert land.

Captain Taylor, in temporary command of the _F 8_, came back into the
radio cockpit. He was a tall, sallow-skinned man of thirty-one or
two, with sharp brown eyes and a veritable beak of a nose. He and a
Lieutenant Sandborn were alone attending to the navigating, for as
the _Fate_ was expected to bring back one of the imprisoned officers,
it had been thought best to reduce the crew by one. Later the boys
discovered that the _F 9_ held but five men, including a single radio
operator, and concluded that their inclusion in the personnel of the
_Fate_ was in the nature of a reward. The captain asked about the
location of the Perdero jail in relation to the barracks and whether it
could be readily picked out. The boys were doubtful as to the latter.

“It’s a small building,” explained Hugh, “about a hundred yards from
the general’s headquarters and about fifty yards from the corral. It’s
nowhere near the barracks, though.”

“Well, I’ll get you to point it out when we get in sight,” said Captain
Taylor. “What’s your idea of this fellow Roza, anyhow? Think he’ll be
there when we arrive, Mr. Clode? Or will he have moved out?”

“I don’t know, sir. Seems to me that when he found we’d got away with
the dirigible he’d decide to beat it before we came back. But those
Mexicans are a queer lot, Captain. You can’t tell how they’ll jump.
Seems like their brains worked differently from ours. Look at the
crazy things they do!”

“They’re like children, I think,” said Jack. “I don’t believe they mean
to be――be bad. They’re ignorant, that’s their trouble. They believe
what they’re told and never stop to reason anything out for themselves.
I guess it’s too much trouble!”

“That’s rather my idea of them,” agreed the captain. “At least, of the
run of them, the working class and the more ignorant. Of course, the
intelligent Mexicans are different. At least, they know what they’re
doing. This fellow Roza’s no ignoramus, I take it. They say he’s well
educated, a graduate of a military college and saw service in the World
War. Blessed if I can get his point of view, though. He must know he’s
mixing himself an awful mess of trouble when he acts like he’s been
acting!”

“Maybe,” said Jack, “he relies on being able to get out of the way
before the trouble starts.”

“I dare say. If so we’ll find him gone when we get there. The
prisoners, too, likely. If he is, all we can do is beat it home again.
Looking for him in this country would be like――like looking for a
needle in a haymow. See anything familiar, Mr. Clode?”

Hugh looked down over the desert now but a few hundred feet beneath
and shook his head. “No, sir. How far from Perdero are we?”

“If we’ve got it located right on the map, about forty miles. Suppose
you come up for’ard in about ten minutes and take the glasses. We’d
ought to be sighting something by that time. My word, this is a lonely
stretch of country, isn’t it?”

“Do you really believe that we’ll go back without having a search for
them if they’re not there?” asked Jack anxiously when the captain had
gone forward again.

“Sounded as if he meant to,” answered Hugh. “I can’t see it, though.
Even if Roza hiked off the minute we left there yesterday he couldn’t
be far off. Twenty-four hours won’t take you a great distance in this
country, I’ll bet. And where is there he can hide, anyhow?”

“Well, there are mountains down that way.”

“Yes, but they must be a good long ways. They don’t even show up now.
I sort of half expect to find things about as we left them, Jack. It
sounds crazy, I know, but I don’t believe that Tito Roza really expects
us. Besides, you know what a way they have of putting things off.
They’ve got this ‘_mañana_’ bug, old son, and you can’t cure ’em!”

“I hope you’re right. I’d surely hate to go back without Mr. Weeks,
Mr. Jordan and the others.” After a moment’s silence Jack continued.
“I wonder if you remember something you said that day you showed me
around this boat, Hugh.”

“What was it?”

“You said that you had a hunch that some day you’d be in command of
her. Sort of funny, the way it turned out.”

“Y-yes, wasn’t it? Know something, Jack? Well, I’m going to get
transferred to the Engineering Branch if I can work it. This pounding
a key is all right, but――but I want to get in the real game! That way,
maybe some day I’ll get a command, you see.”

“Wish I could, too,” mused Jack. “I believe I’ll try for the Balloon
Corps. Think I could make it? Maybe Admiral Thomas would sort of help
me. He seemed mighty nice and friendly last night.”

Further speculation was interrupted by the tube and Jack put his ear
to it. “Captain Taylor wants you for’ard, Hugh. He thinks he’s spotted
something. And here’s _684_ on the ’phone. Take this along, will you?
‘Destination sighted. Will fall back and await your orders. Guernsey.’
I’ve O. K.’d it. Here you are.”

Shortly after one o’clock Perdero lay before them some five miles
distant across the windswept desert. Through glasses a flash of color
showed where the flag of the Independent State of Coahuila still
fluttered above the mud-walled headquarters building. Slowed down to
fifteen miles an hour, with the airplanes hovering overhead, the _F 8_
moved on toward the sunlit village. Behind her, vast and inexorable,
came the sister ship.

CHAPTER XXII

SENTENCED TO DEATH

When Engineer’s Mate Daniel Wason, abandoned in front of the general’s
headquarters by his companions, strolled off down the street he had a
very definite purpose in mind even though to all appearance his only
desire was to kill time. He stopped presently in front of the little
church and, rolling himself a cigarette almost as deftly as Captain
Fosdes would do it, gazed interestedly at the big “organ cactus” at
one side of the arched doorway. It started out at the ground, that
cactus, modestly enough, and just as any other cactus would. And up to
the height of two or three feet it was contented with its one fleshy,
prickly stalk. Then, evidently, ambition had assailed it and it had
decided to branch out in the world. So it threw out a second stalk
parallel to the first. And that effort being successful, it tried the
same thing again on the other side and a little higher. After that, Dan
could see, success had gone to its head. It had become quite crazy on
the subject of branching. It had branched everywhere until it was so
top-heavy that the priest had had to prop it with poles and tie it with
cords to keep it from falling of its own weight. And there wasn’t a
blossom in sight. Dan shook his head disapprovingly.

“So full of itself,” he murmured, “it ain’t had time to do anything for
any one else. Mr. Cactus, you’re sure one selfish old bloke. If you was
mine I’d take an ax to you!”

Then Dan threw away his cigarette and entered the church.

A quarter of an hour later he was back on the blue-shadowed street. A
seller of little squares of chocolate parted him from a few American
cents and, a dozen yards further on, he acted as mediator in a verbal
and fistic argument between two nearly naked boys. The prize was the
head of a defunct rooster. Dan himself couldn’t see the value of the
article, but the youngsters evidently thought a very great deal of it,
and when, having listened to the evidence of each side with a grave
countenance and total incomprehension, he awarded the rooster’s head to
the boy with the fewest clothes, he assuaged the other’s disappointment
with two copper pennies. After that, for an hour, he just merely loafed
and smoked and looked as sleepy and unambitious――almost――as any of his
neighbors along the way.

By then it was nearly eleven o’clock, and, with a yawn, the mate thrust
his hands further into the pockets of his jacket and lolled carelessly
around the side of a mud hut and ambled back from Perdero’s Main Street
past little corrals and tumbledown sheds and over cactus-strewn sand.
A few minutes’ walk brought him near the canvas hangar wherein, a few
days before, he had held converse with the flyer. He did not, however,
immediately proceed toward it. He doubted that he would be welcome.
Instead, he seated himself on the ground, first making certain that
there were no cactus needles on the territory he meant to occupy,
and leaned his broad back comfortably against the wall of a combined
pig-pen and poultry yard wherein, behind defenses of board and barbed
wire, three lean shoats and a dozen or so stringy hens viewed him
suspiciously. From this post of observation he could see the hangar
perfectly without being himself in the public eye to any extent. He
rolled a cigarette, smoked and waited. Here in the shelter of the
nondescript wall the wind failed to reach him and the sun was agreeably
warm. Once he reassured himself as to the working condition of his
automatic and once he whistled a tune softly. For the rest, he just
waited.

Suddenly, from the other end of the village, came a faint clamor above
the ordinary sounds of the sleepy town, and Dan sat up straight and
listened, his eyes on the hangar. From where he sat he could look
in at the front of the tent, since the canvas there was lifted and
thrown back, and see four or five mechanics moving slowly about around
the two airplanes. Following the clamor came the report of a rifle,
then others, then a fusillade. From the hangar emerged the workmen:
there were four of them: and gazed interestedly in the direction of
the shooting. Dan could see them discussing the unusual sounds with
animation, but for a long moment it seemed that their natural indolence
would prevent them from investigating them. Finally, though, two of the
four set off across the sand, and after an instant of indecision the
other two followed. When they had passed beyond the first hut Dan arose
and made his way quickly to the hangar.

Inside was silence and a litter of idle tools. A glance told him that
the airplane at the left was incapable of flight, for its cylinder
heads were off and valves were strewn about. But the second plane was,
so far as he could determine, in working condition. He lost no time.
Close to his hand lay a wrench with a four-inch head and a handle a
foot and a half long. Armed with this and his clasp-knife, to say
nothing of the automatic in its holster, he swung himself up into the
body. He climbed in at the nose, rather than go around the wings,
meaning to clamber from the observer’s cockpit back to the engine
housing. As he stood erect in the amber light that came through the
khaki canvas overhead his eyes fell on the Lewis gun mounted in front
of the cockpit. But his business lay with the engine, and he turned
and laid a hand on the edge preparatory to climbing back. Then he
straightened again suddenly, his grasp on the big wrench tightened and
his heart jumped. For a sharp voice shattered the silence.

Ten feet away the gleaming muzzle of a rifle was aimed straight at his
breast. Behind it, aroused from his siesta in the rear cockpit, was a
ragged but grim-faced _soldado_. What he had said, and now repeated,
was, so far as the words were concerned, beyond Dan’s comprehension,
but the meaning was very plain, the more so when emphasized with that
business-like rifle. Dan’s heart went into his big boots. He had
failed! And all because of his own carelessness. He might have known,
he reflected bitterly, that somewhere about there would be a sleeping
Mexican! To reach the engine was no longer possible in the face of
that weapon. Very slowly his hands began to raise, the right still
holding the big wrench, and as slowly the soldier lowered the butt of
the rifle and elevated the muzzle, keeping, nevertheless, a careful
eye on the _Americano_. He had been set there to guard against the
depredations and bloodthirstiness of this very gringo, and it wouldn’t
do at all to fail in his duty. General Tito Roza was notably _no
simpático_ toward failure!

As his hands went up Dan did much thinking in a brief moment. Behind
him, a stride away, was the machine-gun. In his right hand was the
wrench. The rifle pointed well above his head now. There was a
chance――――

Wheeling suddenly, he brought the head of the giant wrench crashing
down on the breech of the gun. There was a sharp sound of yielding
metal and Dan, dropping to the floor of the cockpit, abandoned wrench
for automatic just as the guard fired. Taking blind aim, since he did
not dare to put his head above the rim, Dan pressed the trigger. There
was a yelp of pain from the after cockpit and the unmistakable sound of
a falling rifle, and Dan leaped to his feet. The soldier had dropped to
cover. Automatic advanced, Dan began to clamber cautiously aft, every
instant expecting to see the muzzle of the Mexican’s gun appear over
the edge of the after cockpit. But what he found when he at last peered
down was a very badly frightened young soldier of the Army of Liberty
nursing a wounded arm. His eyes were round with alarm and pain as he
sat huddled against the side and his rifle no longer interested him. At
sight of Dan he babbled fluently for mercy.

“Huh,” said the mate, as he dropped over the side of the cockpit, “I
guess you ain’t much hurt, Jack. Let’s see! Oh, that won’t kill you.
That’s just――――”

But it appeared that the boy, for he was scarcely more, knew one word
at least of English, for he raised his hands imploringly, and “No kill!
No kill, señor!” he cried.

“Well, that’s what I’m telling you, ain’t I?” said Dan. “That
scratch――――”

“No kill, señor! No kill――――”

“Say, what’s eating you?” Dan raised his voice exasperatedly. “Didn’t
I just say――Oh, that’s it? Think I’m going to kill you, eh? Nothing
doing, sonny!” He patted the boy’s arm reassuringly and grinned his
amiable grin. “No kill, no kill! You’re all right! Just the same, I’ll
sort of remove temptation, Mex.” He picked up the abandoned rifle
and laid it out of reach. Then he hastily made a tourniquet of his
handkerchief above the wound. “There, now you beat it to the doctor,
sonny. I’m off. What’s this you say? Adios? Is that it?”

“_Si! Si! Gracias, gracias, señor!_”

“Same to you, kid, and many of them!” Dan, rifle in hand, climbed
forward to the front cockpit, hastily viewed the machine-gun and then
swung himself to the ground. A stealthy look showed him the workmen
returning along the edge of the village. As they came they gazed at
intervals into the air, and Dan, following their gaze, saw the _F 8_
floating majestically away into the west, hundreds of feet aloft.
Chuckling, he tossed the rifle into a litter of rubbish and, keeping
the hangar between him and the mechanics as best he might, made off
toward the parade ground. Perhaps they saw him eventually, but by that
time he was well away, and presently he had regained the quarters,
there to await whatever might befall him. That the wounded boy in the
airplane cockpit would readily divulge the identity of his assailant
he didn’t doubt for an instant. And so, he argued, it wouldn’t be
long before a squad would arrive to march him off to headquarters or
jail or, for all he knew, a nice, whitewashed wall. But he wasn’t
downhearted. He had done his job fairly well. He hadn’t put the
airplane out of commission, to be sure, but he had effectually disabled
that gun, and when it came to automatics he held no brief for the
Mexican flyers.

“If the Old Man and the young fellows can’t outshoot them guys I’ll
eat my hat!” he chuckled.

So he rolled himself another cigarette and waited. He would have gone
through town to see if he could be of any help to his companions, had
Mr. Weeks not given him his orders. He hoped that such of them as had
been left behind would show up before the soldiers, for he wanted to
report his success ere they marched him off to jail or the firing
squad. And, he reflected, he would feel a bit more cheerful when his
back was to the wall if he had had a few words with his friends.

More than an hour passed, however, and three cigarettes, before the
suspense ended. Then they rushed in on him, more than a dozen of them,
with lowered bayonets and much jabbering, and he was hustled out into
the sunlit street and down it, between approving citizens in rags and
tatters, and across it and so eventually into the little _cárcel_. And
when he heard the door close behind him and looked around he grinned
joyously. For, lo, he was back with his own crowd again; with his
Old Man and the ship’s Old Man and “Gandy” and Mr. Traine! And Dan’s
delight was so obvious that the others, in spite of a natural lowness
of mind following their visit to headquarters, laughed in sympathy.

But later he agreed with the others that it was not exactly a laughing
matter. The general had for once forgotten his suavity and manners and
had fairly frothed at the mouth, they told him. And to-morrow morning a
military court was to consider their cases!

“And,” said Mr. Traine dryly, “they might just as well tell us the
verdict now, for they know it, and so do we. It’s ‘Guilty’!”

They were fed on stale bread and water that evening, which, considering
that they had no dinner in the middle of the day, sadly failed to
satisfy. Lieutenant Jordan remarked jocularly that it was Roza’s
merciful way of reconciling them to being shot. “After a day or two of
this sort of chow, death’s a kindly release!”

They speculated a good deal as to the fate of the dirigible. Every one
pretended to be quite certain that the youngsters would somehow manage
to sail her back to American soil and safety, but actually they were
all rather hopeless about it. When they weren’t discussing the _F 8_
they amused themselves hazarding guesses as to the sentence that the
court would decide on. Although they granted the possibility that Roza
would have them executed, none seriously believed that the general
would dare go to that extreme. “More likely,” said Mr. Jordan, “he’ll
increase our ransoms and keep us here in this filthy hole until some
one comes across with the money――or Uncle Sam comes across with the
cavalry! He’s likely to get over his anger by morning, I guess.”

“Mighty good thing he didn’t decide our fate to-day,” commented Mr.
Traine. “We’d been burned alive, what? Don’t think I ever saw any one
much madder.”

“The little rat!” growled Mr. Jordan. “Getting away with the _Fate_
certainly fetched his goat!”

“I sort of wish we’d made a fight for it then and there,” reflected Mr.
Gandell sadly. “There were four of us, and we had our guns. Now we’re
helpless. And I guess his promise of decent treatment won’t last long
after his fake court gets through with us! We never should have given
up our side arms, Bob.”

“Didn’t have much choice, did we?” asked Mr. Weeks wearily.

“We could have got Roza himself and three or four others,” answered Mr.
Gandell. “If I’ve got to go I’d like to know that I’ve paid my way.”

“Stow it, Pete,” said Mr. Jordan. “Bob did what was best, and you
know it. If we’d tried your game we’d all be lying under the cactus
to-night. As it is, we’re alive and still kicking, like the frog in the
churn. Maybe if we keep on kicking we’ll kick ourselves out.”

The _cárcel_ was divided into two earth-floored rooms, one on either
side of a narrow corridor. The Americans had one room to themselves.
The other was inhabited by at least twenty Mexicans, a noisy crowd who
hooted and shouted insults whenever any of the dirigible’s men showed
in sight across the corridor. The iron-grilled doors were directly
opposite, and between them, in the corridor, sat a guard with loaded
rifle. A single light shone dimly somewhere behind him.

That night was long and uncomfortable. The ground proved a hard bed,
there were no blankets and the cold got into their bones. In the
morning they were filed out by twos into an enclosed yard at the
rear of the jail and allowed ten minutes of exercise. Breakfast was
_tortillas_ and water. As the morning wore away their expectation of
learning their fate dwindled. They had had no hope of being present at
their own trial: that was evidently contrary to Coahuila law: but it
did seem that they might, in justice, expect to be told the result! At
noon, however, the long-deferred came to pass. Captain Fosdes appeared
outside the barred door. His good-looking face was set in sober lines
as he saluted punctiliously and held an official looking paper through
the grating.

“Señors,” he announced, “it is my most regretful duty to deliver to
you the finding of the military tribunal.”

“Thanks,” responded Mr. Weeks calmly as he accepted the document.

He unfolded it and then smiled, shaking his head.

“It appears to be in Spanish, Captain,” he said. “Guess you’ll have to
tell us what it says.”

“Señor, be brave! My heart bleeds for you! I did all that I could do,
I assure you, señor. But your offense was grave and my general is much
angry. Señor――――”

“In two words, Captain,” interrupted the commander, “what is the
verdict?”

“Death, señor!”

“I see.” Mr. Weeks folded the document again and returned it, bowing
courteously. “We are to be shot, Captain?”

“But certainly! With the honors, señor!”

“Thanks,” replied Mr. Weeks dryly. “And――ah――a time has been set for
this interesting event?”

“At two o’clock to-day, señor.”

“Hm. Rather sudden, isn’t it? Are we all included in the verdict,
Captain Fosdes? Wouldn’t the general feel quite as satisfied if he shot
one of us and held the others for ransom? Or, for that matter, why
shoot us at all? We are worth quite a considerable sum to our friends,
even though we may not look it. Would not the money prove convenient to
General Roza about now?”

“Señor, I am desolate! I may only say what has been decided. With all
my heart I regret it.”

“Perhaps, then, you will be so good as to say to General Roza that we
demand speech with him. Will you try to secure that for us, Captain
Fosdes?”

“Gladly, señor! But do not hope too much, for the general is very
offend. Yet I will do the best I can, señor, be assured. _Adios._”

After the captain had gone there was a long moment of silence in the
room. Finally Mr. Gandell cleared his throat and laughed shortly.
“Rot!” he grunted. “Trying to frighten us!”

“Hope so,” said Mr. Traine. “Don’t mind owning that he’s come rather
close to doing it, what?”

“I’m afraid,” said Mr. Weeks after another silence, “that I’m to blame
for this, fellows. I guess we ought to have made a fight out there on
the desert when we had a fair chance. I thought too much about the ship
and not enough about you chaps. I――――”

“Forget it, Bob,” growled Mr. Jordan. “It’s none of your doing.
Besides, hang it all, I don’t feel as if I was going to die at two
o’clock! Seems to me if I was, I’d feel I was! Something’s going to
change the luck, fellows. Maybe, as Pete says, the little rat’s trying
to scare us. Anyway, I’m for keeping on hoping.”

But the minutes went by at incredible speed and nothing happened.
Captain Fosdes did not return. No summons came from the general.
Across the corridor, the further door was crowded with staring faces.
The _Americanos_ were to be shot and consequently had developed a new
interest. At once the condemned men bought paper and envelopes from
the guard and each set about writing letters with the two pencils
available. It was shortly after the hour that the sounds from outside
which had been heard for several minutes took on meaning to those in
the _cárcel_. “_Los Americanos! Los Americanos!_” shouted a voice, and
other voices took up the cry. Mr. Weeks’s pencil dropped as he leaped
to his feet, listening.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE RESCUE

Jack and Hugh watched the gradually approaching village with anxious
interest, Jack from his post in the radio cockpit, Hugh from the seat
beside Captain Taylor. Soon, without the aid of the glasses, they could
pick out familiar features: the little church, the barracks, the parade
ground, General Roza’s headquarters; the latter by the flag above it.
Already it was evident to those aboard the airship that Perdero was
in a mild ferment. Troops were moving like little yellow ants between
barracks and parade ground, mounted soldiers galloped along the road, a
machine-gun battery deployed on the plain east of the town.

“Have they any anti-aircraft guns?” asked Captain Taylor of Hugh.

“I think not. At least, we saw nothing of the sort.”

“And you think they have but one airplane available?”

“Pretty certain of that, sir. In fact, they may not have any, for the
engine of that one was down two or three days ago.”

“Well, they probably won’t show fight, but we’ll soon know. I don’t see
but that you located the place pretty well, Clode. The mark on this map
is only some six or eight miles out of the way. You had it a bit too
far to the north. Would you say that that was the entire garrison out
there beyond the town?”

“I think it is, sir; between four and five hundred is what we
estimated. Roza’s supposed to have several thousand men in his army,
but we never saw many of them. I guess they’re pretty well scattered.”

“We had a report two days ago that they were deserting wholesale. Fancy
he hasn’t been paying them their wages lately. They’ve been drifting
across the border in bunches, they say.”

As the _F 8_ drew nearer the village the machine-gun battery was seen
to move into the town and, although it was lost to sight, those in the
dirigible presumed that it had taken a position about the general’s
headquarters. The infantry also presently marched into the village and
a troop of cavalry――Hugh was almost certain that he could distinguish
Captain Fosdes amongst them――followed. By this time the _F 8_ was
almost above the town and Hugh, after a moment’s perplexity, was able
to point out the _cárcel_ to the captain.

“Right! That’s where we don’t want to drop any bombs, then, Clode.
Not that I think we’ll have a chance to drop any, however. All that
exhibition is just bluff, I guess.” He turned his head and spoke to the
engineer officer. “We’ll swing around when we’re over the building with
the flag, Mr. Carey, and hold her there with her nose into the wind.
Guernsey and one other flyer will land. Our business is to be ready in
case the greasers show fight. That’s all, Mr. Clode. Better get back to
your post.”

The _F 8_ turned widely above the center of the town and the _9_
followed. Below, some six hundred feet away, the flat-topped buildings,
the wide street, the stunted trees had the appearance of a Noah’s Ark
village spread out there in the clear sunlight by some child at play.
The street was gay with the colorful rags of the inhabitants, all of
whom, or so it appeared, had gathered out of doors to stare upward at
the visitors. Even the market place was deserted, save for a handful
of old women. Machine guns guarded the approach to the general’s
headquarters and soldiers were strung all along the street from end
to end of the town. In front of headquarters, looking upward, stood a
group of officers. The _F 8_ straightened her nose into the breeze
and floated quietly and the sister ship swung abreast some two hundred
yards southward. Overhead the airplanes were circling slowly. Then
one started downward and a second followed and a minute later they
were rolling across the drill ground north of the town. When they had
stopped Lieutenant Guernsey climbed out of the foremost machine and
a second officer from the other. Together they proceeded composedly
toward headquarters. As they went, the remaining planes circled lower
and lower and in the bows of the two dirigibles the machine guns,
already slid outboard on their transverse platforms, were tilted until
their shining noses pointed almost straight downward. At the beginning
of the street, near the hut that had served the Americans as quarters,
the two officers were challenged by the Mexican soldiers. After a
moment’s conference a cavalryman trotted to headquarters. The officers
waited. Presently the cavalryman returned and the officers went on. Up
in the after cockpit Jack and Hugh watched apprehensively. Those two
khaki-clad figures below looked terribly helpless amidst that throng.
Hugh instinctively drew his automatic. There was, however, no evidence
of concern on the part of the two flyers. Under the scowling regard
of the civilians and between the double line of soldiers they walked
unhurriedly. Then they reached the group of officers where the green
and yellow flag fluttered. Salutes were given and returned. In the
doorway appeared a small figure.

“Roza,” exclaimed Jack.

The general descended and joined the group. Much talk followed. For
more than a quarter of an hour, while the dirigibles hung overhead
and the three planes that remained aloft circled about, Americans and
Mexicans conferred. Then the two flyers turned and, escorted by guards,
went back the way they had come. Hugh and Jack stared at each other
wonderingly. Lieutenant Guernsey climbed into his machine and a moment
later the telephone in the _F 8_ was busy.

“Roza declares that our men are not here,” said Lieutenant Guernsey.
“Says that they set out on foot at one o’clock yesterday for a village
called Comatila about thirty miles northeast of this place. I think
he is lying. There’s no such village on my map, and, anyhow, he was
too smooth. He says that it had been arranged for the whole party to
get away yesterday in the dirigible, that the two radio men disobeyed
orders and that the balloon became unmanageable or something and went
off with only the radios aboard. He denies having detained any of
the party by force and says that he gave every assistance to Weeks
in repairing the balloon. And a lot more lies. What’s the next move,
Captain?”

“Wait a moment, please.” Captain Taylor repeated the report to the
others. “Do you think he’s telling us the truth, Mr. Clode?” he asked
of Hugh. Hugh shook his head decidedly.

“I’m certain he isn’t, sir. Mr. Weeks and the others are here somewhere.
They wouldn’t start off on foot. We talked that over a dozen times.
There’s no water for miles and almost no trails. Besides, I never heard
of this Comatila place before, sir.”

“Let’s see if our map shows it. No, it doesn’t. San José’s is the
nearest town in that direction, and that’s a lot further than thirty
miles. Of course, it’s possible that there’s a small settlement that’s
not shown here. No, I’m inclined to think, with you, Clode, that our
men are still here. But whether they’re still alive is another matter.”

“I think they are, sir,” said Hugh. “Don’t you, Jack?”

“Yes. The way I figure it, Captain, is that Roza needs money badly and
hates to lose the chance of getting the ransoms. If we could look into
that jail down there I guess we’d find them.”

Captain Taylor thought a moment. Then he lifted the telephone again.
“Lieutenant Guernsey? Our wireless officers are agreed that Roza is
bluffing. We’ll meet his bluff. Return to him, please, and tell him
that I am giving him exactly fifteen minutes to produce the prisoners.
Tell him that if they are not out there beside your planes in that
time we will blow up his rotten little town. And tell him the first
bomb will light on headquarters. Got that? All right. Keep your eyes
open and your automatic handy. We’ve got the crowd covered. If trouble
starts, get under cover, for we’ll turn loose mighty sudden!”

Again the two flyers demanded audience and a second conference took
place. Now, however, less time was consumed. In the end Lieutenant
Guernsey’s voice again came over the telephone. “He sticks to it,
Captain. So do the others. I’m beginning to think he may be telling
the truth. I don’t believe, though, that he thinks we will carry out
the threat. He says now that Weeks and his party agreed to pay some
fines imposed by a court-martial and that they were released on that
understanding. They are to send the money after they reach home.
Somehow, it sounds sort of plausible.”

“But he said before that they weren’t held, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he certainly did.”

“Of course! Besides, we’ve got our witnesses right here. We’ll proceed
as planned, Lieutenant. Time will be up at two-nine. Don’t think it
will be necessary for the planes to take a hand. We’ll do the bombing.
Better stand ready to get up again in case they get nasty.”

Captain Taylor arose from the telephone and again glanced at his watch.
“Seven minutes yet,” he announced. He looked down into the village. The
street was already emptying as news of the threat circulated. The group
of officers still lingered in front of the headquarters building, but
Jack thought he could detect signs of uneasiness amongst them. Captain
Taylor sought the telephone again and issued instructions to the _F 9_.

“We don’t want to kill or wound, so try to drop in the street or in
open places,” he ended.

On the tick of two o’clock the _F 8’s_ propeller, which had been
revolving only fast enough to hold the dirigible in position, spun more
rapidly and the ship turned slowly above the town. Below in the broad,
winding street only the soldiers remained, although here and there a
face could be seen looking cautiously forth from some doorway. The knot
of officers dissolved. None entered the headquarters building, however.
Instead, they proceeded briskly away from that structure. Several,
a figure that might have been that of General Tito Roza amongst the
number, hurried along the street and across to the little church and
disappeared within. The captain took his eyes from his watch and
nodded. Into the frame affixed to the starboard engine outrigger the
engineer’s assistant had already placed one of the six bombs which had
been brought up from below and now stood in readiness. They were not
large, those sharp-nosed metal cylinders; scarcely fourteen inches
long and less than five in diameter; but each contained thirty pounds
of nuvonitro, the most powerful explosive known to science. Captain
Taylor stepped to the ledge and peered down as the _F 8_ moved slowly
forward. His hand reached for the brass trigger. Jack and Hugh stared
fascinatedly from the rear cockpit. The engineer officer stood hand on
throttle. Six hundred feet below, the green and yellow flag whipped
briskly in the sunlight and its pole pointed straight up to the silvery
nose of the balloon. Seconds passed during which the subdued throb of
the port engine alone broke the silence. Then the captain’s hand tugged
gently and there was a faint click as the trigger sprang, and――

“_Speed!_” he shouted.

The engine roared and a rush of wind swept the boat as the dirigible
plunged forward. Between balloon and earth the sun glinted momentarily
on a speeding messenger of destruction. A burst of yellow vapor, a
hollow roar, a concussion that seemed to shake the dirigible as she
tore onward, and in a cloud of dust and flying fragments General Tito
Roza’s headquarters utterly disappeared. Looking backward and down as
the _F 8_ turned widely, Jack saw beneath the brownish pall of dust
only a great hollow where the mud-walled building had stood. Then his
gaze leaped further beyond, for a second detonation had sounded. The _F
9_ had dropped a bomb in the wide, rutted street back near where the
peddlers congregated and another great hole appeared, the front wall of
a house toppled forward and the roof slowly sagged and then fell in.
Four frightened, but apparently uninjured, Mexicans evolved from the
cloud of smoke and dust and sped like rabbits down the street. As the
_F 8_ swung her nose back toward the scene of destruction a second bomb
was swung into place, and at that moment Jack’s gaze fell on a fleck of
white beside the giant cactus by the church. A second look brought into
view the figure of the priest, cloaked and derby-hatted. Across the
threshold of the little sanctuary he went and down into the street, and
from there, gazing upward, waved a white cloth, perhaps taken from the
altar within.

“The only brave one of the lot,” commented Captain Taylor. “Well, I
guess they’ve had enough.” In answer to the signal of surrender, the
dirigible swung eastward again and stood off toward the edge of the
village and the _F 9_ followed. A moment later forms issued from the
church, soldiers who a second before had been invisible sprang into
sight again from doorways and again the street became inhabited. A
squad of Roza’s ragged infantrymen set off toward the _cárcel_, and,
ere one could have counted a hundred, five figures emerged from the
door of the squalid hut and in the after cockpit of the _Fate_ two
boys leaned over the side and waved their caps and shouted wildly.
Along the street toward the drill ground where the two airplanes stood
marched the little group. Well short of the planes the soldiers came to
a halt and turned back, but the five others went on across the ground;
Lieutenant Commander Weeks and Lieutenant Traine ahead, Lieutenants
Gandell and Jordan next, Engineer’s Mate Dan Wason lounging along
behind. From the dirigible, high above, they saw the flyers hurry
forward, saw the men clasp hands, and then a shout from Lieutenant
Sandborn in the cockswain’s seat turned their attention elsewhere.
Across the village a yellow airplane was leaving the ground. The roar
of her motors came distinctly as, gathering speed and height, she swung
westward in flight. One of the American planes, far above, started in
pursuit, but Captain Taylor seized the telephone.

“Let him go!” he called. “If it’s Roza, as I think it is, maybe he’ll
get killed. Let’s give him the chance, anyway!”

Then, speaking to the pilot ahead: “We’ll make a landing,” he said.
“About two hundred yards beyond our planes looks all right. Mr. Clode!
Tell the _F 9_ we will land north of the two planes, spacing two
hundred yards.”

* * * * *

Shortly before midnight a white light showed in the purple darkness
southwest of Camp Stanton. It came and went far up in the heavens for
several minutes, while at the camp a khaki-uniformed man, smothering a
yawn, read the message and then picked up his telephone.

“_F 8_ and _F 9_ returning, sir! Reconnaissance trip successful.
Captain Taylor reporting.”

Ten minutes later two big shadows, picked out by twinkling lights,
hovered over the landing field. Below, the ground crews gathered,
the doors of the sheds trundled open and the great flood-lights were
turned on. Down settled the dirigibles like tired monsters of the air,
their silken envelopes shimmering in the radiance. Megaphoned orders
sounded, cables dropped and were manned, bells tinkled in the engine
compartments. Then: “Steady, port! Haul away at the bow! Easy now!
Bring that stern around! That’ll do! Walk her in!”

Five minutes afterwards the _F 8_ was back home again, her engines
still, her lights out, and down the ladder climbed a tired but
triumphant seven. Mr. Weeks led the way. The other members of the
rescued party had returned in the _F 9_ and two of the planes.
Welcoming hands awaited the lieutenant commander as he reached the
ground, for news of the arrival of the balloons had sped about the camp.

“The Old Man wants you to come around for a minute before you turn in,
Bob,” announced a brother officer, when he had wrung Mr. Weeks’ hand.
“He’s waiting up for you in a pair of sky-blue pajamas.”

“All right, Charley. Speaking of pajamas, though, my own are going to
look mighty good to me. Just a minute. I want to speak to a couple of
my chaps. Clode, are you there? And you, Sterling? Oh, here you are!
Look here, fellows, I forgot something this afternoon. It isn’t much,
but it may interest you.” He dropped his voice. “You two fellows are
the real heroes of this little stunt, and we all realize it. I’ve
thanked you personally, as the others have, but I’m going to try to
see that the Navy thanks you too. Understand me?”

“Not quite, sir, I’m afraid,” answered Hugh.

“Well, I’m going to get you recommended for promotion. And if I
have any influence with Rear Admiral Thomas, Clode, you’ll get your
lieutenancy; and you, too, Sterling. And there’s another thing I’m
going to do, too, by Jove! I’m going to see that you fellows stick to
the old _Fate_. If, as they say here to-night, we’re really going to
war with Mexico, I want you with me! Good night! Sleep well!”

“Sleep!” murmured Jack as Mr. Weeks hurried away and he and Hugh made
their way out of the shed. “Gee, I’m not going to do any sleeping! I’m
going to lie awake all night and call myself ‘Lieutenant Sterling’!”

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

――Obvious punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.

――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST DIRIGIBLE ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.