The other aviator, the one described as the blond brute, had made successful progress across the continent only to have his motor go wrong during the chase of the afternoon. Jimmie was not much inclined to throw bouquets at himself, but he chuckled at the thought that only for his success in keeping the blond aviator amused the two outlaws might at that moment have been beyond the reach of the officers.
“And here they sit,” Jimmie chuckled to himself, “waiting for Ben and Carl to come back, or waiting for some officer to drop down and give them the pinch!”
There is an old saying that one must not count chickens before they are hatched, which Jimmie at that moment seemed to have overlooked. While he was complimenting himself on coaxing the outlaws into their present danger, the outlaws themselves were conferring as to what advantage they could take of the situation in which they found themselves.
“It’s just this way,” Mendosa was saying in a low tone to Phillips. “The whole country is astir over the smuggling going on, and will be full of officers in no time. Even if the police do not come here to get us, it is not improbable that they will blunder into our camp some night and lug us away as suspicious characters.”
“What ought we to do then?” asked Phillips.
“We ought to get out,” Mendosa replied. “Why, even the forest rangers are coming down here looking for you. I never did think it was good sense for you to wear that uniform.”
“Now don’t kick!” snarled Phillips.
“It’s enough to make a man kick!” Mendosa declared. “Here we thought we had a neat little home for the next three months, with no one aware of our presence here, and no danger of going hungry. But just look what we’re up against at this moment! I wish we could get one of the steamers that come up here with smuggled Chinks.”
“Much good that would do!” sneered Phillips.
“That’s what you say to all my suggestions,” Mendosa snarled.