“Mebbe that’ll keep you quiet, miss,” he speculated grimly as he reached down and threw Lefty over his shoulder again.
A half hour later, Panama entered the camp boundaries with the rows of white tents just ahead of him. He didn’t fear any of the boys on guard duty. After all, he was top kick and none of them would dare turn him in, not if they knew what was well for them! Of course, the military police, that was something else again! That crowd of roughnecks would just as lief place an offending major general under arrest as quickly as they would turn in a raw recruit.
He turned down the company street where he and Lefty lived. Just ahead of him, his keen eyes caught the silhouetted figures of Major Harding and one of his aides coming in their direction.
“Cripes, don’t that guy ever turn in?” he thought aloud. “If he catches me with my mechanic passed out, it’ll be a month in the brig instead of a medal that I’ll be gettin’!”
Panama ducked inside of one of the tents just in time to avoid a meeting with the squadron commander and his adjutant. When they had gone a sufficient distance ahead in the opposite direction, he came out, still bearing Lefty on his shoulder and hurried down the company street to their own tent.
Once inside, he lighted the small oil lamp with one hand and threw the prostrated form of his mechanic over on the cot, with the boy lying motionless in the same position that he had fallen.
“There you are, soldier!” Panama announced, good-humoredly, as he lighted a muchly deserved cigarette. “As you were—or nearly!”
He placed his cigarette down to wipe off the bloodstains from the scratches the little native minx had inflicted upon his arms, face and neck when he heard a woman’s voice, just outside the tent, call his name.
He opened the flaps and found Elinor waiting for him with grave anxiety plainly written over her pale face.
“Is he hurt, Panama?” she asked, making no attempt now to conceal her deep concern over Lefty’s welfare.