ul--the all-rightness of everything? Being
together again, and----"

"Going to be together always! And my job waiting! Isn't the old boy a
wonder? I saw him, just now. He says he's heard from Mexico City and
it's O. K. to start Thursday. They're going to send the escort."

"In two days," said Honor, blissfully, "we'll be on our way home! Jimsy,
in two days!"

But in two days dizzyingly, terrifyingly much had happened. The pleasant
little comedy of life at _El Pozo_ had changed to melodrama, crude and
strident. They had been attacked by a band of _insurrectos_, a wing of
Villa's hectic army, presumably; the _peons_, with the exception of the
house servants and Yaqui Juan, had gone gleefully over to the enemy;
Richard King had been wounded in his hot-headed defense of his
_hacienda_, shot through the shoulder, and was running a temperature;
the telephone wires were cut; infinitely worse than all, the besiegers
had taken possession of the well and they were entirely without water.

There had been, of course, the usual supply in the house at the time of
the attack and it had been made to last as long as was humanly possible,
the lion's share going to the wounded man, but they had arrived, now, at
the point of actual suffering. His role of helpless inaction was an
intolerable one for Jimsy King to play. To know that--less than a
quarter of a mile away, down the moist green path through the tropic
verdure--was the well; to see Honor's dry lips and strained eyes,
Carter's deathly pallor, to hear his uncle, out of his head, mercifully,
most of the time, begging for water, meant a constant battle with
himself not to rush out, to make one frantic try at least, but he knew
that the deeper courage of patient waiting was required of him. They
could only conjecture what the invaders meant to do,--whether they
intended to have them die of thirst, whether they meant to rush the
house when it suited their pleasure--raggedly fortified and guarded by
Jimsy and Carter and the half dozen of the faithful. Jimsy had talked
the latter probability over steadily with Honor and she understood.

"Jimsy," she managed not to let her teeth chatter, "it's like a play
or--or a Wild West tale, isn't it? Like a 'Frank Merriwell'--remember
when you used to adore those things?"

"No, Skipper, it's not like a 'Frank Merriwell'; he could always _do_
something...." Jimsy's strong teeth ground together.

"Yes--'Blooey, blooey! Fifteen more redskins bit