CHAPTER V.

OFF TO LAREDO.

During ensuing days Jack paid strict attention to his experimental work. He maintained daily radio communication with Rafaela, learning that there had been no further news from her father. But he made no more trips below the line. Tom Bodine tried to lure him away into the mountains on a fishing expedition, but he turned a deaf ear, leaving the older man disconsolate.

“Allus a-potterin’ ’round with that radio stuff,” said Tom contemptuously, lounging in the doorway of the radio shack. He made a clear-cut figure, like a Remington painting of the Old West, against the background of blazing sunshine and desert seen through the open doorway. “Don’t know why yo’re so crazy ’bout it, Jack,” he said turning away. “Bringin’ the noises o’ the world into the desert, that’s what yo’re a-doin.’ Some day ye’ll regret it, when ye ain’t got no place to go where ye kin have peace an’ quiet.” And he stumped away, with Jack’s laugh ringing in his ears.

But Jack’s experiments in simplification of the Super-Heterodyne were progressing satisfactorily, and he was pushing the work eagerly in order to have something with which to surprise Frank and Bob on their arrival. He had developed a special transformer which he felt assured was superior to anything then on the market. By its use he was receiving stations from coast to coast, with crystal clarity, loud speaker volume and minimum interference. Every day he logged each station and later singled it out again with the same dial setting. And every day’s patient experimentation found interference decreasing and volume and clarity growing stronger.

Then came the Saturday to which he had been looking forward as the last day on which to get everything in shape for the arrival of his two pals, who were expected on the morrow. But as he worked away that morning in the radio shack, he suddenly heard his call. It was the usual hour at which he was accustomed to call Rafaela, and as his eyes travelled to the clock he experienced a sense of guilt. So immersed in his work had he been that he had ignored calling. Doubtless, this was Rafaela summoning him.

But when he answered, a man’s voice replied: “That you, Jack?”

Jack stuttered. He could hardly believe his ears. Why, it couldn’t be—Yes sir, it was, it was! And so eagerly that he could hardly make himself heard, he shouted: “Hel-lo, Bob.”

“Here, get away. Give me a chance,” Jack heard coming through the air. That was Frank. There was the sound of a scuffle. Then loud and clear and triumphant came Frank’s voice: “The big bully. Tried to keep me away. Wanted the first word. But I—Ouch, leggo.”

Again the sound of scuffling, and then first Frank and then Bob shouted into Jack’s ears.

Wherever they were, the two were certainly larking. Finally, matters became pacified and then Jack got in a question as to where they were calling from.

“From Laredo,” Frank informed him, “from the flying field. Decided to come around this way to reach you in order to stop off and see a bull fight. Say, Jack, they tell us tomorrow will be the finest bull fight in months across the line in the Mexican town. We wanted to get you to come down. I thought of this stunt of asking the army flyers to let us call you—”

“That’s a tall one, Jack,” cut in Bob. “It was my bright idea.”

Another scuffling bout. “Great Scott,” said Jack to himself, his face in one broad grin of delight, “they’ve been penned up in a train for days and they’ve just got to let off their animal spirits. Only hope they don’t tear things to pieces for the army men.”

“Tell you what, fellows,” he said, when again matters had been pacified. “I’ll get Dad and we’ll fly down late this afternoon. Look for us about sunset. Then we can all go to the bull fight tomorrow.”

“That’s the idea,” endorsed Bob. “We want you, old scout. Kind of miss you, you know, and that sort of thing.” Bob was growing facetious to hide his deeper feelings. “Besides,” he concluded, “my father is here, too, and he sort of wants to foregather with your Dad.”

“Can’t blame him, can you, Jack?” cut in Frank. “Think of his having to put up with Bob so many days.”

“Hey, you fellows, cut that out, and listen to me,” expostulated Jack, as sounds reaching him indicated the friendly wrestling bout was being renewed. And when he once more had Bob’s ear, he told him to look up Captain Cornell.

“Shucks, Jack, you’re late,” said Bob. “It was Captain Cornell who gave us the run of the place soon as we told him we were your friends and that it was you we wanted to radio.”

“Yes, Jack,” added Frank, “he told us to be sure and get you to come to Laredo for tomorrow’s bull fight. Said he promised to take you to see a good one, and that this promised to be it.”

As soon as the conversation was ended, Jack declared a truce to work for the time being and set out at a run for the house. Hardly had he gotten beyond the door of the shack, however, than conscience smote him for not having communicated with Rafaela. Turning back, he endeavored to call her but was unable to get any response. “Some Mexican kid pulled out a couple of wires again, I guess,” he muttered. “Well, everything must be all right or she’d have called me. No use worrying. Besides, Dad will want the news.”

And, abandoning his efforts to raise Rafaela’s station, he set out on the run for the house.

Bursting into the comfortable living room, he found his father seated in a broad deep chair in front of the low table on which he was accustomed to do his writing, and gazing up at Tom Bodine who sat on a corner of the table at ease.

“Just talking about what we’ll have for dinner, Jack,” said Mr. Hampton, smiling at him. “Name your preference. Tom says he may not be able to give us Mexican dishes like Ramon, but that since Ramon deserted and left him the post of cook he’ll feed us American style. Now last night we had—”

“Yes,” grinned Jack, “I know what we had; beef and eggs, and night before eggs and beef. But old Tom needn’t worry his head about how to vary the menu tonight, because you and I won’t be here.”

“Won’t be here?” Mr. Hampton stared.

“No sir,” said Jack, “we’ll be eating at the Hamilton Hotel in Laredo.”

The astonished glances of the two men were his only answer, and after enjoying their mystification a moment Jack proceeded to enlighten them.

“We’re going to fly to Laredo to meet Frank and Bob and Mr. Temple,” he said. “They’ve just radioed from the army flying field. Went to Laredo in order to stop over and see the bull fight tomorrow.”

“Waal,” said Tom, sliding off the table, and preparing to depart, “I kin see there’s goin’ to be hotter days even than we been havin’ around here. Give ’em my best, Jack. An’, say, better bring a cook back with ye. I’ll ride inta Red Butte an’ git some fresh supplies.” At the door he paused to fling over a shoulder: “Don’t let the bull git ye.” Then he disappeared.

Jack laughed. “Come on, Dad,” he urged, “put your writing away and come on out to the hanger. We’ll have to go over the old bus an’ get her in tip-top shape for the trip.”

Pretending reluctance, yet reluctance belied by the eager twinkle in his eyes, Mr. Hampton complied. And together they headed for the hanger, where each donned voluminous coveralls and went about the work of greasing and oiling, and the tightening of struts and stays.

As they worked away, each busied upon a different part of the plane from the other, each intent upon his own thoughts, there was little opportunity for conversation. But as his fingers flew about the tasks which he performed almost mechanically, Jack’s thoughts were flying, too.

He started in by thinking of Bob and Frank. They had been separated more than six months, the longest period of separation for years. Communication between the two at Yale and Jack in the Southwest had been steady and continuous. Yet, after all, what good were letters? Six or seven months made a good many changes in a fellow. What were they thinking about, how were they dressing now, had Bob fully recovered from the broken collarbone incurred in the game against Harvard last Fall, was Frank putting himself in trim for the Summer tennis season in which he stood an excellent chance to rank high among the national leaders? All these and many more questions of like nature ran through Jack’s thoughts.

And then, unconsciously, his thoughts drifted away from his companions to Rafaela. Why hadn’t he been able to obtain a response to his call that morning? Had affairs down there taken a new turn? If so, what? And then, suddenly, apparently without his having previously considered the matter, the mysterious disappearance of Ramon popped into Jack’s mind. He gave a final turn to a loose nut and, wrench in hand, stood up and called to his father.

“What is it, Jack?” Mr. Hampton was crouched down, examining the lock nut on one of the wheels, and did not look up.

Jack walked around to the front of the plane and leaned against the fuselage, tossing up and catching his wrench.

“I say, Dad. Just thought of something.”

“What?”

“About Ramon.”

“Well, what about him?”

“Why, just this,” said Jack. “Maybe he, too, has gone away to join this mysterious individual Ramirez. Rebels must eat, and a good cook like Ramon ought to be in demand.”

“You may be right, Jack,” said his father, after a moment’s consideration. “But, somehow,” he added, glancing up, “I have a suspicion—well, you can hardly call it that, because I have nothing to go on—say, a feeling that the mysterious Ramirez isn’t contemplating revolution.”

“What makes you think that?” Jack demanded in astonishment. “Especially after what Don Ferdinand said.”

“I can’t explain it,” said Mr. Hampton, going back to his task. “And I don’t know what he can be about if it isn’t the stirring up of another revolution. But, there it is. What you might call a hunch.”

Jack regarded his father’s bowed head with a puzzled frown. Then he straightened up and moved briskly away. “Well, this isn’t getting the bus ready for her trip.” And he went to work again.

Whitey appeared from somewhere presently, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and announcing he had been up all the night attending a dance at the Horsethief Canyon School. He was put to work, but was more hindrance than help. At noon they knocked off work to take a cup of coffee and a hastily-thrown-together sandwich. Tom had taken the flivver and gone to Red Butte for supplies. Then they returned to work again.

After the plane had been lubricated and overhauled, it was trundled out onto the field, where, while it strained against the wheel blocks, Jack warmed it up. Everything was running sweet and true. It was now the middle of the afternoon. Jack once more attempted to raise Rafaela’s station, but again without success.

“All right, Dad,” he said. “May as well go.”

Mr. Hampton was already aboard. Jack climbed into the cockpit, Whitey dragged the wheel blocks out of the way. Jack saw to it that the motor shutters were open, the spark properly advanced and the altitude adjustment was correct. Already, during the warming-up process, he had satisfied himself that the motor was working at its best. So now he threw up his hand as a farewell signal to Whitey, and slowly eased the throttle on. Five minute’s later, after a perfect take-off he was well up and heading east.