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.