JARROLD GETS FRANTIC
Jack turned to find the colonel bending over him. Despite the military
man’s firm effort at self-control, his face was gray.
“Is there any hope?” he asked.
Jack shook his head.
“They’ve stolen a march on us, Colonel,” he said. “The yacht had a clean
bill of health, whether forged or not, I don’t know. At any rate, her
clearance papers must have been O. K. or she could not have sailed.”
“Probably forged,” said the colonel. “I must communicate with Washington
at once.”
“I can probably relay a message through,” said Jack. “What do you want
to say?”
“I will go to my cabin and write it in code,” was the reply, and with
stooping shoulders the stricken colonel left the wireless room. After a
short time he was back again with his code message. In the meantime, Sam
and De Garros, under Jack’s instructions, had notified the ship’s
officers, who were all ashore, of the looting of the safe, and an
important conference, which Colonel Minturn joined, was held in Captain
McDonald’s cabin.
An examination by the purser showed that nothing except the papers,
which had been in an inner drawer, had been taken, so that there was no
object in alarming the passengers by notifying them of the robbery. The
money and valuables were temporarily removed to another and older safe,
and a screen placed about the damaged one to shield it from prying eyes.
Jack was summoned to the cabin to give his version of the affair and
received warm commendation for the way he had acted. But the boy felt
somehow—however causelessly—that he might have done more to prevent the
robbery and recover the papers. However, it was too late then.
He succeeded at last in getting a message through to the national
capital, relaying to the immense radio station at Arlington. That
message borne over the seas, caused more excitement in Washington than
had any piece of news received there for many days. Cabinet officers
were summoned for an extraordinary conference and every wire and
tentacle of the secret service was set in motion.
Scout cruisers stationed off Mexico were ordered to scour the seas for
the _Endymion_ and capture Jarrold if they had to sink his yacht. The
administration’s message to Colonel Minturn was in code, but Jack
guessed that it was a sharp reprimand couched in no very gentle terms.
Uncle Sam is not harsh with his servants, but he does not tolerate
mistakes, even though innocent and unavoidable.
The _Tropic Queen_ sailed early next morning while the naval wireless
was still sending the far-flung message, “Find the _Endymion_ and
capture the man Jarrold.” That simple message from Jack, tapped out by
his agile finger-tips, had set the machinery of the war and navy
departments buzzing as nothing short of a declaration of war could have
done.
The possession of the complete plans of the fortification of the Panama
Canal by Jarrold, meant only one thing. They would speedily pass into
the hands of the foreign power of which he was agent. This meant that
the power in question would have complete, triumphant knowledge of the
most carefully guarded secrets of the mighty nation that built the great
canal.
It would be necessary to squander money and time on remodeling the whole
system of defense unless the _Endymion_ could be found. That was the
burden of the song the naval wireless men were flinging backward and
forward with flaming keys that crackled and flared angrily.
“Find the _Endymion_! If she is on the Seven Seas, find her.”
Over those who knew the secret agony that the army officer was suffering
hung a heavy gloom, as the _Tropic Queen_ ploughed her way seaward,
bound for Santa Marta on the coast of Colombia. Colonel Minturn kept to
his room, nursing his anxiety.
From time to time the naval wireless boomed messages in the secret code
into Jack’s ears and they were promptly transmitted below. But the
colonel sent out no replies. All that he could say had been said in that
first radiogram that had set official Washington a-buzz.
And in the meantime, on board the _Endymion_, what was happening?
Speeding as if from a deadly plague, she was driven at top speed across
the Caribbean. Jarrold, his face gray and lined, and almost as
anxious-looking as the visage of Colonel Minturn, paced the deck and the
bridge, calling always for speed and more speed. His niece, pale-faced
and nerve-racked, watched him anxiously.
Cummings, catching the naval messages that volleyed through the air,
told of the hunt that was up; of the naval prows ploughing the tropic
seas in a systematic hunt for the grayhound-like yacht that was fleeing
like a criminal across the sea wastes.
Jarrold, under the strain, grew dangerous to approach. He kept shouting
and signaling for speed and ever more speed. The engineer appealed to
him in vain. It was dangerous. The boilers could carry no more steam.
Already the ship was a-quiver with their imprisoned power.
But Jarrold had only one reply:
“More speed, I say, more speed!”
On the evening of the second day of this mad race, a murmur began to run
through the ship: A rumor that Jarrold was a criminal. That he was
fleeing from justice. That he would blow the ship up with every soul on
board rather than be captured.
The grimy crew of the stokehold, the “black watch,” refused to face the
trembling boilers any longer. They feared that at any moment the steel
plates would yield under the terrific pressure and annihilate them and
the ship. The chief engineer, unable to keep them at their work, even at
the pistol’s point, sought Jarrold, while the stokers spread a mutinous
spirit throughout the yacht.
Jarrold was bending over a chart in the pilot house when the engineer
found him.
“You are crawling like a snail,” he snarled; “more speed.”
“The men have quit,” said the engineer quietly to the half-crazed man.
“They are afraid to work below. The boilers may burst any moment.”
“I don’t care about that. We must reach the coast before to-morrow
morning. It must be done. My life hangs on it.”
“I can’t help that. The men won’t work,” protested the engineer;
“they’ve thrown down their shovels and gone forward. I’d advise you to
give in to them; they are in a dangerous mood.”
Jarrold sprang to his feet with a snarl. He reached into a drawer and
drew out a magazine revolver.
“The mutinous dogs! I’ll drive them back to their fires with this,” he
rasped out, rushing from the bridge.
“Don’t do anything rash,” implored the engineer, who knew how things
stood. “The rest of the crew are with them and we’ll have a general
mutiny on our hands if you precipitate trouble.”
The only answer was a roar of rage from the hunted man, about whom Uncle
Sam was weaving a fine-meshed wireless net.
He swung down the steps from the bridge to the main deck with the
agility of an ape. The captain, who also knew how matters stood, turned
to the engineer and the mate.
“You fellows better get your guns,” he said; “there’s trouble coming
now.”
Suddenly the slender, graceful form of Jarrold’s niece appeared on the
bridge.
“Oh, what is it? What is the matter?” she implored.
“It’s nothing, Miss Jarrold,” began the captain, in a tone intended to
pacify the half-hysterical girl. “You see——”
The sharp crack of a pistol shot cut him short. Following the shot, came
a riot of savage cries and shouts.
The captain wasted no more words but, followed by his officers, all
armed with revolvers, ran forward.
“That madman has spilled the fat now,” he cried, as they rushed toward
the forecastle. The sounds proceeding from it resembled the uproar from
a den of wild beasts.