With an angry gesture Freddy Farmer changed his rain slicker to his other arm, and pushed his service cap to the back of his head.

"Blast it, I'm going to rest!" he cried, and instantly pulled up to a halt. "You said a walk, Dave, not a cross-country hike to the Atlantic coast. You know how far we've come?"

Dawson slowed down and turned around with a grin.

"Who cares how far?" he said. "This is swell. The trouble with you is, you're falling apart from old age. But okay, if you have to rest. Some view, huh? Californians sure have a right to brag, don't they?"

"If they like," Freddy muttered, and sank down on a convenient tree stump by the side of the path. "But it's not my old age, I'll have you know. It's these blasted new shoes. Only wore them once before. I certainly wouldn't have worn them if I'd thought you were coming this far. It's all of five miles, if it's an inch."

"Just the right distance for a nice work-out," Dawson said with a heartless grin, as he sank down beside Freddy. "But get those gunboats off and let's see if you've got any blisters. And speaking of blisters from new shoes, I once knew a guy who got a blister, and two days later, guess what?"

"What?" Freddy Farmer grunted, and began unlacing his shoes. "What about two days later?"

"He died, just like that," Dawson grinned, and snapped his fingers. "He was a swell guy, too. And it was just a little tiny blister. Didn't seem like anything at all. Let's have a look, kid. Maybe you got a big blister."

"You'll have something big, too, and on the side of your head, if you don't shut up!" Freddy growled, and held up one of his shoes by the toe. "One thing I always admired about you, young fellow, you do cheer up a chap so!"

"Always aim to please," Dawson chuckled, and leaned back on his elbows. "See that hill over there? How far, would you say?"

"I'm not saying, because I don't care a penny's worth!" young Farmer snapped, and peeled off his socks.

"About three miles, I guess," Dawson murmured. "I think we can make it there and back to the base by dark. We'd get a swell view of the sunset from the top of that hill."

"You would, if you're fool enough to go there!" Freddy Farmer cried. "But not me, because I'm heading back to the base just as soon as I've had me a little rest!"

"Aw, don't be a sissy!" Dawson chided. "Come on. It will do you good. Really break in those new shoes of yours. I was kidding about it being three miles. It can't be more than a mile. We'll get a swell view of Dago and Coronado, Freddy. Come on; be a good guy!"

When there was no comment from his flying mate and dearest pal, Dawson turned his head and opened his mouth to speak again. But no words came from between his lips, and that was because of the scowling, puzzled look on Freddy's face. He was sitting up straight, holding a sock in each hand, and staring intently at the crown of a low hill a short distance in back of where they sat.

"What are you looking at?" Dawson demanded, and twisted all the way around.

"That little cluster of shacks up there," Freddy replied. "I just saw a couple of chaps sneaking along by them. They looked a bit strange to me. I think one of them was in uniform."

"So what?" Dave grunted as he eyed the group of weather-beaten shacks. "That's where the pickers live, I guess. For the orange groves, I mean. They're migratory pickers. They don't stay in one place all year round. Only for the picking season. Then they move, families and all, to some other section where a fruit crop has come in. That must be some life, I don't think. I wouldn't ... I see them, now, pal. And one is in uniform. And—hey! They're looking around as though they wanted to make sure nobody was watching them. Crouch down, Freddy. They won't be able to see us for those bushes there. I wonder what their act is all about anyway?"

"Well, it certainly looks suspicious from here," Freddy Farmer grunted as he hugged the ground closer with Dawson. "And ... I say, Dave, you see that?"

"See what?" Dawson demanded.

"The one in civilian clothes, if you could call them that!" the English-born air ace said breathlessly. "His right hand! He's got a gun in it. Watch, and you'll see the sun on it as he turns."

Dawson didn't make any reply. He hugged the ground and peered past a clump of bushes at the two figures standing on the crown of the low hill no more than a couple of hundred yards away. One was very definitely garbed in uniform, but because of the position of the sinking sun, and the rays of light it cast off, it was impossible to tell what kind of a uniform at the distance. Then the other, the one obviously garbed in civilian clothes, turned slightly and the sunlight danced off a gun he held in his right hand. Dave gasped audibly, but it was not caused by sight of the sun on the gun. Rather, it was because of the figure's movements with the gun.

"Cat's sake, Freddy!" he grunted. "The guy is waving that soldier inside that shack with his gun. See? There they go in, both of them. What the heck do you suppose, pal?"

"Blessed if I know," Freddy breathed back. "Certainly looks deucedly queer, though. Do you fancy that soldier chap is being held up, or is in trouble?"

"I wouldn't know," Dawson grunted with a frown. "Maybe we should find out. But he didn't seem to act as though he were putting up any objections. I had the feeling there that he sort of smiled."

"Me, too," Freddy replied with a nod. "I was wondering if you had seen it, or if it was just my imagination. Oh, it probably means nothing at all. We're just the suspicious type, I guess."

Dawson stared at the crown of the hill for a moment, and then lowered his gaze to the ground right in front of him, deep in thought.

"What are you thinking about. Dave?" young Farmer presently asked.

"The one thing that doesn't seem to make sense," Dawson murmured after another moment or two of silence. "That gun ... and it certainly was a gun, wouldn't you say?"

"Definitely," Freddy assured him. "Looked like a long-barreled automatic to me. But it was definitely a gun of some sort. Well, what about it?"

"What's a civilian doing with a gun?" Dawson asked. "Particularly in these parts. This is a military zone, Freddy."

"Perhaps it's the soldier's, and he let him look at it," young Farmer offered.

Dawson just shrugged at that, and said nothing. He raised his eyes and stared at the shack into which the two figures had disappeared, and then presently he turned and looked questioningly at Freddy Farmer.

"Well?" he said.

"Well, what?" the English-born air ace replied innocently.

"You know exactly what I mean!" Dawson snapped. "Do we take a look to make sure, or do we just skip the whole thing, and start back to the base?"

"What do you think?" Freddy instantly countered with a question of his own. "Shall we, or shan't we?"

Dawson hesitated a moment, and then pointed at Freddy's shoes and socks.

"Put them on," he said. "Maybe it'll just be a horse-laugh on us, but maybe it isn't as it should be. It isn't picking season around here yet, and by rights I don't think there should be anybody living in those shacks. I ... Oh, heck! Call me a curious cuss if you want to, but things like this get my curiosity clicking. I have to find out one way or the other."

"As though I hadn't known you long enough to realize that!" Freddy Farmer grunted, and began putting on his socks and shoes. "But for once I'm with you. It's aroused my curiosity, too. How do we operate? Walk right up there, or steal from bush to bush, your American Indian style?"

"Neither!" Dawson snapped, and pointed to their right. "We use our heads, instead! We go back that way and circle up the rise from that end. Then we walk along with the shacks covering us. That way, if we're surprised we can say that we were just taking a look at the lay-out. Just remember, one of them has a gun. And he might be the kind of a guy who asks questions afterward."

"And right you are, for a fact!" Freddy Farmer breathed, and tied the last shoelace. "Your way suits me quite all right. As you Yanks say, there's no need to have somebody pull our necks out."

"You and Yank lingo!" Dawson groaned. "But skip it. Let's go, and ... But, hey! What about your feet, Freddy?"

"They'll last," young Farmer assured him, and stood up. "It was only a pebble, anyway. Let's get going."

Only a pebble. Just a tiny fragment of stone. Yet the presence of that pebble in Freddy Farmer's shoe was to send them both into the Valley of Death, and perhaps even to change the entire course of the war in the Pacific!