“They’ll be here— Let’s see.” Jack retrieved the letter from the table, turning to the date. “Why, they’ll be at San Antone the twentieth. And this is the seventeenth, isn’t it? I lose track of time out here. Stay in San Antone a day, and then come on to Red Butte. Golly, Dad, they’ll be here in five days.”
The next day Jack announced he was going to carry the news to their friends in Mexico. They would be glad to hear it, he said, especially Don Ferdinand who had taken a great liking to big Bob Temple because of the way in which the young athlete had performed prodigies of strength in the rescue of Mr. Hampton, several years before. Don Ferdinand had been the victim, but he was a game loser. And because of the warm friendliness which had developed between the two parties since that bygone time, he could afford to smile at all that had happened now.
“Why don’t you go along with me, Dad?” Jack suddenly suggested. “Do you good to get away from your poky old writing. Come on. Blow the cobwebs out of your brain.”
“Believe I will,” said Mr. Hampton, after a moment or two of thought. “Wait till I tell Ramon we won’t be home for dinner. He’d feel hurt if we didn’t let him know. Besides, I’ll need my helmet and goggles.”
While he was absent, Jack and Tom Bodine tuned up the motor of Jack’s two-seater, of which Tom stood in considerable awe, yet which he teasingly referred to as “Jack’s air flivver.”
Mr. Hampton returned wearing a puzzled expression. He explained that he had been unable to find Ramon. This was strange, as the old fellow seldom stirred from his kitchen. He inquired of Tom whether the latter had seen him since breakfast. Tom shook his head in denial, but his tow-headed assistant, a youngster from Red Butte, who approached in time to overhear the question, spoke up.
“Yes sir, Mr. Hampton, I seen him light out toward Red Butte ’bout an hour or two ago. He come out o’ the back o’ the house soon after breakfast. I was out here where I sleep”—nodding toward the hanger. “He was hobblin’ right fast on them bad feet o’ hisn. Stops by the road an’ along comes that Mexican feller in town what runs the flivver at the station, just like he had a date t’ meet Ramon. So the old feller gets in an’ away they go toward Red Butte.”
Mr. Hampton’s face cleared.
“Oh, I suppose he wanted to go to Red Butte to order supplies,” he said. “But it’s queer he didn’t say something about it at breakfast. Well, come on, Jack. Let’s get going. You fellows will have to feed yourselves, Tom. I think there’s plenty of food in the storehouse, and I know how well you can cook flapjacks. So I guess you won’t starve before Ramon gets back. We’ll be back tomorrow. Don Ferdinand wouldn’t let us come back tonight, I know.”
Thereupon, at a nod from Jack, Tom and his assistant who was known as “Whitey,” withdrew the wheel blocks. The motor was already well tuned, everything was working satisfactorily. Jack glanced up at the wind-indicator, noting that the take-off would be south, just as he was headed. Then he advanced the throttle smoothly, being careful not to over-feed the motor, and the graceful light plane instantly started forward in response.