“Senor, but—” The boy’s thoughts did not follow so readily. “Oh, the Street of Our Lady of Guadalupe.”
“Huh. And that street back there”—pointing—“the one where you said was this secret passage into the Japanese house?”
“The Avenue of the Presidents.”
“Good enough,” said Bob. “Thanks.” And he swung the transmitter toward him. “Say, you know the calls of the stations around here?”
“Senor, there are none except my own.”
The boy swelled out his chest like a pouter pigeon, and Bob had hard work cloaking a grin.
“I mean across the Border. What’s the call of the American flying field?”
“Senor, it doesn’t broadcast. I do not know. But is it the flyers you would call? Are you an aviator? Is your companion an aviator? What has happened? You have not told me.”
“Hold your horses,” said Bob, at this flood of questions, lapsing into English. “Thou shalt be told,” he added hastily in the youth’s own speech. “All in good time. Meantime, there is a man to be aided.”
“And do you call a Doctor?”