A man who was obviously a Mexican came forward to meet them.
“Do you speak English?” asked Linda.
The man nodded, smiling.
Reassured, the girls climbed out of the cockpit, and Dot proceeded to tell their story, asking how she could notify the police in Los Angeles in the quickest time, so as to have them pursue the Sky Rocket instead of the autogiro.
“You can send a wire immediately, right from here,” the man replied. “At least—you can when the operator comes back. He’s off for supper now.”
“I am a wireless operator,” announced Linda, calmly. “If you are willing to trust me, I can send my own message.”
“O. K.,” agreed the man, who was beginning to decide that girls could do almost anything now-a-days.
“And I want to leave the autogiro here for the night, and have her filled with gas and oil,” she continued. “And go to some hotel for a meal. Can you recommend one for us?”
“There are several hotels,” he replied, proudly. “But I will send you to the best.”
It proved to be strangely unlike any hotel the girls had ever visited. It was a long, low stucco building, with stone floors on the first story, and bare boards above. The supper, too, was unlike American food, but it tasted good to the hungry girls who had had nothing but a couple of oranges since their breakfast. And the prospect of a roof over their heads, after their disastrous adventure of the night before, was extremely pleasant. After their hearty supper they sat out on the wide, roofless veranda until the night grew cool enough for sleep.