TROUBLE IN MEXICO
Lieutenant Jack Adeler, dressed in riding breeches and khaki Norfolk
jacket, was pacing the lobby of the Palace Hotel, waiting. As he saw
a tall youngster enter the revolving door, he hastened to him and,
with not a word, dragged him off to his private room.
“Hike,” Jack Adeler exclaimed, “can you get away for two weeks, and
come with me to Mexico, to drive the _Hustle_, and fight off some
insurrectos? They’re attacking my rancho, down there. I can get
leave from the Headmaster for you—I telegraphed him. But what about
football?”
Hike thought quickly. “Well, I’ll have to miss a couple of games.
They can put in Left Eared Dongan and—”
“So _that’s_ what you call Dongan,” smiled the Lieutenant, hurried
though he was.
“Sure. Pink Eye Morrison chewed his left ear for calling him ‘Glass
Arm’ once!... Well, I can get back in time for the last two games—
You’re sure we won’t take over two weeks?”
“Not much over, certainly.”
“Well, anyway, I can get back in time for the big Thanksgiving game
with San Dinero.”
“All right; that’s settled, then. Now, listen.” And Jack Adeler
explained the “why” of this jaunt to Mexico:
“Captain Welch has turned up again—like the bad penny. He’s in
Lower California—that’s a province of Mexico, you know. There isn’t
supposed to be any more revolution in Mexico, now, but believe me
when I say that there’s _always_ more or less revolution in Lower
California. That part of Mexico is more or less shut off from the
rest, with some pretty savage islands on the west. I believe there’s
a real tribe of cannibal Indians, near Tiburon Isle.
“Well, Captain Welch has turned up there as a Colonel commanding a
tough regiment of Mexicans, Indians, and rascally Americans. They
are simply robbing and plundering, and calling it ‘revolution.’ The
authorities in that part of the state can’t do a thing with them.
Well, they are heading for my rancho, at Aguas Grandes—which means
there’s a two-by-four creek running through the desert, and they call
it ‘Aguas Grandes,’—big waters.
“My foreman has telegraphed me that he knows Welch is going to
attack, though Welch is taking his time getting there, plundering on
the way. If we get there by midnight, to-morrow night, we’ll probably
be in time.
“We’ll just have to fight. Welch has got the authorities so scared
that they’re more likely to help him than to protect the rancheros.
Martin Priest is coming with a tetrahedral—with the _Hustle_—and you
and I will take that—it ought to be here by four this afternoon—and
cart a machine-gun down to my rancho, and be ready for Welch. Is it a
go?”
“Sure. Four this afternoon? I’ll rush out to Santa Benicia for
clothes and a revolver, and be back here before then. Oh, say, is
Poodle in on this? Aw, please, please take him. He’ll be all broke up
if he doesn’t get taken.”
“I’m sorry—I wish we could; but it’s impossible. He’s a corking boy,
but scarcely enough of a fighter for this—though, of course, he’s got
plenty of courage.”
Hike believed the Lieutenant wrong. He remembered how Poodle had
stood up to Left Ear, showing enough courage in this schoolboy-fight
to take him into a real battle, even with insurrectos. But the
Lieutenant was his commander, and he merely saluted.
“By the way, Hike, don’t even mention this. Just let the Headmaster
and Poodle know where you’re going. They’ll keep still. I had to
confide in the Headmaster myself. Be sure about this, for remember
that if this got into the newspapers, it might mean big international
trouble between the United States and Mexico—an American army
officer fighting on Mexican territory. I’m going as a private
citizen, a ranchero, and I don’t want any one to know I’m anything
else.”
“Right O!” promised Hike, and hurried out for the next train to
Santa Benicia, wild with the joy of going, and feeling (it must be
confessed) rather important, thus entrusted with a secret which could
make trouble between two nations.
* * * * *
At Santa Benicia, Hike had two hard tasks that he had to get
through quickly, and one that was a joy. This last was the packing
of his aviating garments—his paper gloves, of a soft French paper,
for warmth; his Balaclava aviator’s helmet; muffler, overalls,
aluminoid-silk Flying Jacket; together with his revolver,
water-bottle, and emergency box of capsules of food—with which, a
flat pilly-looking lozenge made fair soup for a hungry and stranded
aviator. He loved the things, for they meant flight and adventure.
But he had those other two tasks. He had to tell Poodle that he
couldn’t go along. Poodle was hard hit, though he pretended that he
wasn’t, busily helping Hike pack.
Then Hike had to tell the captain of the team, Bill McDever, that
he was called away for two weeks. McDever was a kindly, quiet chap,
who adored Santa Benicia Academy as much as he hated any one who
was unclean of mouth and didn’t take exercise. McDever pleaded with
Hike; he spoke of Santa Benicia’s need. Hike loved Santa Benicia, but
there was an even louder call to duty—that of Jack Adeler and the
endangered rancheros, and the tetrahedral. So he had to say, “No,
sorry, McDever—I’ve got to go.”
Then the captain half threatened and half warned him with something
that Hike hadn’t thought of. “If you go off this way, old man, you’ll
smash training up so badly, that there’ll be horribly little chance
of your getting into the San Dinero game. I don’t want that to
happen, either for your sake or for the sake of the team.”
“Gee, that’s so,” mourned Hike. “I might be in pretty bad trim for
the game. But even so, I’m afraid I have to go. There’s—there’s a big
duty.”
“I believe you,” said McDever, heartily, “and good luck to you,
anyway. Get back as soon as you can; and I _hope_ that even if you
_are_ away two weeks, it may not be necessary to drop you from the
line-up.”
Hike hoped so, too. But, anyway, he made himself simply forget the
question of whether he would lose his chance on the team or not, and
faced Mexico and the battle.