long intervals the weird cry of some night bird came from the woods, on
the edge of which they were camped, but that was all.

Jack sat down on the edge of his cot and gazed across the tent at the
others.

"Well?" he said.

"Well?" came back from his two chums in danger.

Thus began a conversation which, with intervals of silence, when the
sentries' heavy footsteps passed, continued into early dawn. Then,
with a consciousness that the future alone could bring about a solution
of their dilemma, the three tired lads tumbled into their cots to sleep
the slumber of vigorous, exhausted youth.

CHAPTER XIV.

"DEATH TO THE GRINGOES!"

It was broad daylight when the lads awoke. About them the life of the
camp had been astir for some time, in fact. Bugles rang out cheerily
and ragged troopers hastened hither and thither, with fodder or buckets
of water for their mounts, for in Madero's flying squadron each man
looked after his own animal, with the exception of a small force
detailed to commissariat duty. From the village below, curious-eyed
Mexicans began pouring into camp with the earliest dawn, and by the
time the three involuntary imposters were out of their tent and had
doused each other with cold water, the place presented a scene of
lively activity and bustle.

"Sitting on the edge of a volcano seems to agree with us," remarked
Jack, as the three sauntered off to join Bob Harding, who was standing
outside his tent door, smoking a cigarette, a bad habit he had picked
up from the Mexicans.

Indeed, three more manly, rugged lads would have been hard to find.
Under their tanned skins the bright blood sparkled, and there was a
surety in their long, swinging stride and the confident set of their
shoulders that made one feel a certainty that there was a trio that
would be able to take care of itself in any ordinary emergency.

Refreshed, even by the few hours slumber, and with sharp-set appetites,
the boys felt altogether different persons from the three bedraggled
youths who had been jounced through the tunnel, and later thrown into
such a perplexing combination of circumstances.

"I feel fit for anything," Ralph confided to Jack.

"Good boy," rejoined his companion, throwing his arm about the Eastern
lad's neck; "we'll come out all right. I'm confident of it."

"Unless the real Con Divver, Jim Hickey and Ted Rafter happen to show
up," put in the practical Walt, with a half-grin.

"Botheration take y