"Da leetle kids," replied a fat, indolent-looking Greaser, spitting a generous supply of tobacco juice. "I na believe it," he added, with a foolish grin which was intended to betoken shrewd disbelief.
"That so," laughed the soldier. "What you think, John?" he asked another.
"No sabe," responded the Mexican, spreading out his palms. "Spak no Angloise." He turned his attention to the machine which he had been inspecting with childlike interest.
"I'd give a dollar for a cool breeze," sighed a soldier, skimming off the moisture that had gathered on his face and neck.
Grouped about Hawke were the aspiring young aviators—the Fort Bayard bunch and the two from the Bread Pudding ranch. Their bright faces were rosy with excitement, and Hawke's was flushed with eagerness.
"Suppose it shouldn't work," whispered Fly, breathlessly, afraid to sound aloud the unconfessed fear which he did not share alone.
"Forget that noise," reproved Jerry. "Just leave it to Hawke. He says she's going to."
"Dry up, old man," chided Dunk. "Didn't we make it—then it's all right."
"You bet it's goin' to work," confidently assured Herb, unwilling to allow himself a moment's doubt.
Perhaps Hawke himself was a little anxious, for his habitual cool demeanor had given place to a rather apparent agitation. He continually plowed his hands through his damp hair as he went about giving the machine a final examination.