What's your name?"
"Dougherty--Mike Dougherty, Clark street, south of Van Buren!"
"I guess you must be French," Jimmie grinned.
"You've guessed it. Now, what's your name, and what are you boys
doin' here with this old sky-ship?"
"I'll tell you all about it when we get back to the hotel," Jimmie
replied. "Do you know any of the gazabos about here? I want some
one to watch the ginks who are watchin' the mutts who are watchin'
the aeroplane."
Dougherty laughed at this suggestion of a treble surveillance and
pointed out a lanky looking individual who was studying the machine
closely from the outer side of the roped-circle.
"That's Pedro," he said. "He's all right. About all I've had to
eat since I came here he's given me. He's a Peruvian Indian, and in
need of money. Give him a dollar, and he'll guard your guards a
month, and never leave the machine, night or day."
"Does he talk United States?"
"Oh, just a little."
Pedro talked quite a little United States, as Jimmie called it, and
a bargain was soon struck with him. Then the two boys started away
together. First they visited a clothing store, where Jimmie looked
at the best suits in stock, and measured Dougherty cautiously with
his eyes. A full outfit of under and outer clothing provided, they
proceeded to the hotel, where Jimmie ushered his new-found friend
into a commodious bathroom.
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