me reward for it."

"That's queer reasoning, Harding."

"Say, Hickey, you're a rum sort of chap. So are your chums here, too.
Not a bit what I expected you to be like. I thought you were
rip-roaring sort of fellows, and you act more like a bunch of prize
Sunday-school scholars."

There was a taunting note in the words that Jack was not slow to catch.
Particularly was the last part of Harding's speech brought out with an
insulting inflection. Jack's temper blazed up.

"See here, Harding," he snapped out, "do you know anything about
dynamite?"

"Eh? What? Yes, of course. But, good gracious, what's that got to do
with----"

"Everything. Dynamite doesn't say or do much till it goes off, does
it?"

"What are you driving at, my dear fellow, I----"

"Just this;" Jack's eyes fairly snapped in the starlight, as he looked
straight into Harding's weak, good-natured countenance; "don't monkey
with high explosives. Savvy?"

Harding's eyes fell. He mumbled something. For a minute he was
abashed, but he soon regained his spirits.

"Forgive me, Hickey," he exclaimed, "and you, too, Rafter and Divver.
I thought you were just a bunch of kids, but now I see you are the real
thing. Blown in the bottle, this side up, and all that.

"Say, do you know," he went on, lowering his voice cautiously and
bending forward as if afraid the coffee-colored sentry pacing near by
might overhear, "for a while I even thought you were imposters."

"No!" exclaimed Jack, starting back in well-assumed amazement.

"Fact, I assure you. Funny, wasn't it?"

"Not very funny for us had your suspicions been correct," put in Walt
Phelps.

"My dear Con, I should think not. Putting your eyes out with red-hot
irons would be one of the least things that old Madero would do to you.
Fatherly old chap, isn't he? But, as you said, Hickey: Don't fool with
dynamite!"

A few paces more brought the boys to their tent.

"Well, good night, or buenas noches, as they say in this benighted
land," said Harding, as they reached it. "Better turn in and have a
good sleep. And then to-morrow it's Ho! for Tom Tiddler's ground, a
pickin' up gold and silver."

"And maybe bullets," came from Walt.

"Oh, my dear fellow, that's all in the life. Buenas noches!"

And Bob Harding passed on, humming gayly to himself.

The boys entered their tent and lit the lamp. It was silent as the
grave outside, except for the steady tramp, tramp of the sentries. At