At Santa Benicia, Hike had two hard tasks that he had to get through quickly, and one that was a joy. This last was the packing of his aviating garments—his paper gloves, of a soft French paper, for warmth; his Balaclava aviator’s helmet; muffler, overalls, aluminoid-silk Flying Jacket; together with his revolver, water-bottle, and emergency box of capsules of food—with which, a flat pilly-looking lozenge made fair soup for a hungry and stranded aviator. He loved the things, for they meant flight and adventure.
But he had those other two tasks. He had to tell Poodle that he couldn’t go along. Poodle was hard hit, though he pretended that he wasn’t, busily helping Hike pack.
Then Hike had to tell the captain of the team, Bill McDever, that he was called away for two weeks. McDever was a kindly, quiet chap, who adored Santa Benicia Academy as much as he hated any one who was unclean of mouth and didn’t take exercise. McDever pleaded with Hike; he spoke of Santa Benicia’s need. Hike loved Santa Benicia, but there was an even louder call to duty—that of Jack Adeler and the endangered rancheros, and the tetrahedral. So he had to say, “No, sorry, McDever—I’ve got to go.”
Then the captain half threatened and half warned him with something that Hike hadn’t thought of. “If you go off this way, old man, you’ll smash training up so badly, that there’ll be horribly little chance of your getting into the San Dinero game. I don’t want that to happen, either for your sake or for the sake of the team.”
“Gee, that’s so,” mourned Hike. “I might be in pretty bad trim for the game. But even so, I’m afraid I have to go. There’s—there’s a big duty.”
“I believe you,” said McDever, heartily, “and good luck to you, anyway. Get back as soon as you can; and I hope that even if you are away two weeks, it may not be necessary to drop you from the line-up.”
Hike hoped so, too. But, anyway, he made himself simply forget the question of whether he would lose his chance on the team or not, and faced Mexico and the battle.
CHAPTER XXIII
REBELS AT THE BORDER
Night on the desert. There seemed to be millions of new stars in the sky, as they whirred over the dead world of sand and cactus, in the Hustle. The Lieutenant was taking a nap, nestling in a long cloak, between the Benet-Mercier machine-gun and a pile of cartridge-boxes. Hike was driving the tetrahedral, glad to be facing the winds again, glad to be shooting ahead at nearly a hundred miles an hour, instead of dawdling across the Yard. But he was a little anxious, too, for he was afraid that he was lost.
He kept searching the roller-map, in front of him. There were so few landmarks. He had no towns, with brilliant arc lights, to go by. He wanted to ask the Lieutenant’s opinion of where they were, but also he didn’t want to wake the tired man. He took the chance that they were near the spot where the corners of Arizona and California nearly meet, on the border of Mexico, and turned southwestward.