There were no more grades nor zigzags between them and Tampico, but, so narrow was the primitive road, two miles farther were backed before space was found in which to turn around.  One thing of importance did lie between them and Tampico—­namely the investing lines of the constitutionalists.  But here, at noon, fortune favored in the form of three American soldiers of fortune, operators of machine guns, who had fought the entire campaign with Villa from the beginning of the advance from the Texan border.  Under a white flag, Wemple drove the car across the zone of debate into the federal lines, where good fortune, in the guise of an ubiquitous German naval officer, again received them.

“I think you are nearly the only Americans left in Tampico,” he told them.  “About all the rest are lying out in the Gulf on the different warships.  But at the Southern Hotel there are several, and the situation seems quieter.”

As they got out at the Southern, Davies laid his hand on the car and murmured, “Good old girl!” Wemple followed suit.  And Miss Drexel, engaging both men’s eyes and about to say something, was guilty of a sudden moisture in her own eyes that made her turn to the car with a caressing hand and repeat, “Good old girl!”