That worthy was awakened for the meal, which did not conclude until after twilight. Gail leaned back against one wheel of the ship in comfort. Hemingwood lay lazily at full length. Apperson went for a walk. He was a tactful man, was the sergeant.
“Your uncle was a bit mysterious about this Ballardson bozo,” Hemingwood remarked. “There’s no love lost between them, is there?”
“Oh, they get along all right,” Gail responded carelessly. “Uncle Ed doesn’t exactly approve of Ballardson, though?”
“Why not, if I’m not too curious?”
“He’s from the mountains, you know, and everybody knows that his garage business doesn’t amount to anything. His real occupation is transferring moonshine by truck into various towns—Covington and Cincinnati, principally.”
“I see.”
It was probably Ballardson who had sent that note, Hemingwood reflected. The garage man did not cotton to the idea of a ship flying above the mountains several hours a day, taking pictures which he would figure might be for the purpose of locating stills. He had taken a chance that the letter would scare the interlopers away. Hemingwood did not anticipate any more extreme measures, when the note failed to work. It had been his experience that the uniform of the United States Army aroused respect enough to make any wearer thereof immune from actual personal violence, under ordinary conditions. He had seen the effect of it on the border and likewise in these same Kentucky mountains. Except under unusual provocation, an army man was much safer than any other stranger could possibly be.
“Has East Point got any minion of the law?” he asked.
“Just Ballardson,” returned Gail, with that little chuckle that Hemingwood so enjoyed hearing.