“They need soup. Many would die without it. Soup means meat. We must have it. The nearest cattle are a hundred miles away. The Mongols have them. They are the border traders between China and Russia, you know. They have cattle—hundreds of them. They can be bought for gold.”
“For gold,” smiled Johnny, patting his chest which still bulged suspiciously. “I’ll be off for the cattle in the morning. I’ll leave Doc here to do what he can, and to look after you.”
“Good!” exclaimed Mazie, clapping her hands again. “The Red Cross will supply you a band of trustworthy Russians to help drive the cattle here. The Mongols won’t dare bring them.”
“All right,” said Johnny. “And now, what about the supposed hospitality of the Red Cross? I’m hungry. So is Doc.”
“Right this way,” and Mazie hurried through the door.
Half an hour later the two were enjoying such a meal as they had not eaten for months; not because of its bountifulness, nor richness, but because it was prepared by a woman.
“To-morrow,” said Johnny, as he murmured good-night, “I am to venture into one more unknown land.”
“Yes, and may your patron saint protect you as he has done in the past,” said Mazie.
“My patron saint is a miss,” smiled Johnny, “and her name is Mazie. Good-night.”