There he went again, playing with the thought until they slid through Inglewood and out on the boulevard that curved flirtatiously close to a railroad track, where he had tramped with Bland—­good golly!  Was that only last night?  Tired and hungry and blue, with a broken plane to think of and Mary V and the Rolling R to forget—­last night.  And here he was, debating with himself the wisdom of accepting an offer of a thousand dollars a week, thinking seriously of buying himself an automobile!  Was it two miles to where they had turned out of the bean field on to the highway?  It certainly didn’t seem that far today.  Except for the curves which he remembered he would have thought the driver had made a mistake when he slowed and swung short into a rough trail that crossed the railroad.  But there was the Thunder Bird sitting disconsolately with a broken nose and Lord knew what other disabilities, in the bean field where he had left her.  He felt as though he had been away for a month.

With a pencil and paper he was carefully setting down what slight repairs he would need to make, when a big, dark red roadster swung off the boulevard and came chuckling toward them down the rough trail.  Cliff Lowell was driving, and he greeted Johnny with a careless assurance of their unity of interest that would make it difficult for Johnny to hold off, if holding off proved to be his ultimate intention.

Cliff climbed out and came up to the Thunder Bird, standing with his feet slightly apart, pulling off his driving gloves that he might light a cigarette.

“They told me at the hotel you were out here, so I came on.  Better send that car back to town,” he suggested frugally.  “I’ll take you in.  No use wasting money on car hire when you don’t have to.  I want to talk to you, anyway.”

Johnny hesitated, then paid his driver and let him go.

“I’ve got to go around to a supply house and get me a new propeller,” he said afterwards.  “And a control wire snapped.  We made a bum landing last night—­or my mechanic did.  He claimed he knew this field, so I let him go ahead.”

“Where is he?  Did you let him out?”

“I didn’t, but I will if he don’t show up; pronto.”  Johnny’s tone was the tone of accustomed authority.  “He failed to report, this morning.”

Cliff reached into an inner pocket and drew out a flat package, which he proceeded to open, using a wing for a table.  “I’ve been busy this morning,” he announced, laying his cigarette down on the wing.  Johnny promptly swept the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel.  Wing coverings are rather inflammable, and he was not taking any chances.

“Pardon the carelessness.  I don’t know much about airplanes, old man.  Well, I went to the boss and had a talk with him, after I left you last night.  I put the proposition up to him, and he is rather keen on it.  He sees the value of getting news by airplane.  The saving of time and the avoidance of publicity will double its value—­to say nothing of the chance that we may be able to pick up something of immense importance to the government.  Mexican situation, you know—­all that sort of thing.