“To-morrow, to-morrow,” he kept saying, but the talisman of a good, big tip kept him at work.
In the meantime the auto had gone as far adrift in the sand storm as the boys, very nearly, and the state of mind of its occupants can be imagined when they found after the storm had cleared that they had traveled miles in the wrong direction and were near to Gila Bend on the Southern Pacific Railway, with no more idea as to what had become of their young companions than they had of the direction in which the aeroplane had been blown.
Telegrams were sent out broadcast by Billy and Lathrop, but no news was had of the Golden Eagle. Lathrop suggested sending word east of the boys’ plight, but Billy overruled this.
“They may turn up all right,” he said, “and if they do, we shall have alarmed their parents for nothing.”
The next day, however, while Frank and Harry were plodding across Mexico in their ox cart, Billy became so anxious that he sent word to the Planet, asking them to notify him at once if word was heard of the boys, as he knew that they would wire the paper as soon as they landed anywhere. No word had been received by the paper, however, and it was a gloomy party that sat on the porch of the little hotel at Gila Bend that afternoon and evening. After a troubled sleep Billy emerged onto the street in the early morning and was met by a ragged station agent.
“Be your name Barnes?” he asked.
“That’s me,” said Billy, wondering what the man could want.
“Then I’ve got a message for yer. It come late last night, but I didn’t want to wake yer.”
“And you’ve been holding it all this time?” indignantly demanded Billy, guessing at once that it was news.
“Wall, yer wanted yer sleep, didn’t ye?” demanded the man.