Diego gave vent to a raucous laugh after making this announcement. He
walked across the room, leaned his rifle against the table, and picking
up the handcuffs inspected them critically. His prisoner was unarmed and
too far away to offer an assault before he could snatch up his gun
again. He did not fear Bill physically. But many people misjudged that
slender body with the broad shoulders. The young midshipman was not yet
seventeen; nevertheless he was star right end on the Navy team and as
strong as a steel bridge. Now he saw his chance and took it.
Bending down as though to untie the pair of rubber soled sneakers he
wore, Bill suddenly half straightened and his lithe form shot through
the air. Before Diego could drop the handcuffs, one hundred and sixty
pounds of bone and muscle struck him just above the knees and he crashed
over backward beneath a perfect tackle. The unexpected jar and shock
half-stunned him and before he could gather his faculties, Bill’s fist,
backed by the venom of a sorely tried temper smashed him behind his left
ear. All lights went out for Diego, gangster and gunman, right there.
Bill scrambled to his feet, ran to the open door and peered out. The
corridor was empty. He closed and bolted the door and after a moment’s
thought, he approached the unconscious gangster.
Five minutes later, a young man clad in cotton undershirt, ragged cotton
trousers and rubber soled sneakers stepped through an open window on to
the wide veranda which ran along the side of the barracks. On the young
man’s head was a floppy broadbrimmed hat of straw. He carried a rifle.
The owner of these articles lay on the floor behind the window, quite
oblivious. When he came to again, he would find his wrists manacled
behind his back, his right leg chained to the table, and a gag in his
mouth. As Bill Bolton walked swiftly along the veranda, he conjured up
the pleasing picture of Diego’s awakening, and grinned.
With the hat’s brim pulled well down and acting as a partial screen to
his features, he ran down the broad wooden steps and out to the road.
Not a soul was in sight. Then suddenly his heart missed a beat.
“Hey, you! Where you goin’?” called a voice from the porch behind him,
and a man he had not seen before ran down the steps. Just then a large
handbell was rung somewhere within the building.
“Come in and get yer chow,” called the man.
Bill felt that he would certainly cause suspicion if he refused to obey
this suggestion. Moreover, he was thirsty and half famished. So he
walked back to the steps.
“I reckon you’re one of the new hands on the yacht,” observed the man.
“That’s right,” admitted Bill.
“Thought so, when I seen yer beatin’ down toward the harbor just afore
dinner time. The boss feeds us swell here. Has to, with this gang to
look after. Men get easy discontented in a sweatbox like this here
island. How’s the grub aboard the _Pelican_?. Useter be pretty bad.”
“I’ve eaten worse,” said Bill.
“Well, come along in and feed here today,” turning back up the steps
with him. “It’s a hot walk along that shell road, and I’ll need yer to
help herd some of them prisoners down there later on.”
Bill followed him into the building. This time he found the large room
deserted, and passing through a doorway to the right, the two entered a
big hall, down the middle of which ran two long, narrow tables.
The men were already seated at dinner, and nobody paid the slightest
attention to the new arrivals. Bill’s companion took his place at the
head of a table and motioned the lad to a vacant seat just below. A
pitcher of what proved to be lemonade was within Bill’s reach. He filled
and emptied his glass three times before he began to feel refreshed. A
slatternly negress placed a plate piled high with fried chicken, rice
and fried plantains before him and he dug into it with the relish of a
starved man.
“Reckon the _Pelican’s_ chow ain’t so good, the way you tackle yer
dinner,” laughed the man at the table’s head.
“If they have fried chicken aboard, it never gets for’ard of the cabin,”
Bill grinned back. He knew that his identity might be discovered at any
time and planned to make the most of the meal while he could.
“I run the commissariat and the men here at the barracks,” his new
acquaintance informed him. “Y’ got to feed ’em right to keep ’em
contented. The boss is liberal. ‘He knows his oats. Bum chow makes fer
fights and knifin’s in this climate.”
Bill nodded and kept on eating. A man further down the table raised his
voice above the clatter of cutlery on dishes and the hum of
conversation.
“Did you hear about the two guys that blew in here on a plane this
morning, Tom?” he asked the man at the end of the table.
“I sure did,” laughed that person. “I guess they didn’t know what they
was bumpin’ into when they hit Shell Island. You guys won’t have to take
so many trips to the mainland if suckers come here of their own accord,
eh?”
The laughter became general. The men apparently enjoyed the joke.
“Where are they now?” inquired another.
“Tony and Diego’s got them over to the calaboose. They was up to the big
house and Martinengo looked ’em over. It’s Bolton, the sugar
millionaire, and his boy.”
“The boss could squeeze a bunch o’ kale outen that pair!”
“But then he’d have to let ’em go,” said Tom. “And that would blow the
gaff. He’s shippin’ them up to the workin’s this afternoon with the rest
of the bunch.”
“I bet there’ll be a holler raised, when old man Bolton doesn’t show up
at home,” observed a voice far down the table. “That gang’s got
influence and friends. Yer can’t cop a millionaire without runnin’ into
trouble.”
“That’s where yer all wet, Zeppi,” called down Tom. “Bolton’s influence
won’t count him nothin’ with the Martinengo boys; and his friends will
think he’s dead. Went down with his son in the blow last night. There
won’t be no comeback. The two of ’em will be dead soon. The workin’s
ain’t no health resort.”
“I’ll say they’re not,” returned Zeppi. “Martinengo wouldn’t get me to
stick ‘round that dump—double pay or no double pay.”
“Oh, yes, he would—and on the jump,” Tom contradicted. “You’re a new
man, Zeppi. Y’ got a lot to learn, and the first thing is that the boss
don’t ask—he orders—and so do I. Them what tries to make trouble is put
on the spot. Get me?”
Tom turned to Bill. “Some o’ these boobs don’t know when they’s well
off,” he remarked genially. “What do they call yer, young feller?”
“Bill,” said Bill. He finished the last bit of his food and poured
himself another glass of lemonade.
“Well, Bill, if you hike back to the _Pelican_, that bo’sun will put you
to swabbin’ decks or somethin’. I need you later and I’ll fix it up with
him. You go into the bunk room and turn in with the rest of this crew.
Gotta take yer rest now—the bunch o’ you’ll be up all night.”
Bill saw that he had no option but to obey, so when the men left the
table he went with them. His plan had been to go to the jail, overpower
Tony and release his father. They would then make for the harbor, take
his amphibian or one of the others moored in the little bay and fly
away. Now he realized that he must conform to circumstances as he found
them. Nobody knew that he was not what Tom took him for, a deck hand on
the yacht _Pelican_. If only Diego were not discovered, he would make
another sortie in an hour or so, when the men were deep in their siesta.
No sound came from behind the closed door to the room where he had left
the gunman, lying gagged and bound, as he trooped down the hall with the
rest. The rear of the long corridor opened into a huge, airy apartment
which ran the full width of the building. Screened windows opened on to
verandas on three sides. The room looked like a hospital ward, with its
long rows of cots. At the head of each bed was a wooden chest with a
padlock for the owner’s belongings. A single sheet and a blanket were
folded at the foot of the bed, under the pillow. Everything was neat,
and evidently kept in the orderly arrangement of a military barracks.
Framed signs on the four walls read, “Silence—No Talking.” Tom, though
seemingly a genial soul, ruled with an iron hand.
Bill spread his sheet on the cot pointed out to him, and placed his
pillow at the head of the bed. Then he kicked off his sneakers and lay
down. Except for the sound of breathing and the buzzing of a bluebottle
against a window screen, the place was absolutely quiet. It was hot,
notwithstanding the ventilation, but the cot was comfortable, and try as
he might, Bill could not fight off the drowsiness that assailed him.
He awoke with a guilty start to the loud clang of a ship’s bell and sat
up on his cot. The hands of the clock on the wall opposite marked five
o’clock. He had slept four hours.
“I reckon you had a good snooze by the look of them eyes o’ yourn,”
remarked a jovial voice and Bill looked up to see Tom standing at the
foot of the bed. “Make it snappy, now,” he continued. “Take yer gun an’
wait fer me on the front porch. I’ll be along in a minute and I’m
puttin’ you on the detail that’s goin’ down to the harbor with them boys
in the calaboose.”
Bill nodded and slipped into his sneakers. He jammed his hat on his
head, and picking up his rifle, hurried from the room. He was angry with
himself for having fallen asleep, and now that he had the chance, he
meant to take it. Tom, when he came out, would not find him on the
veranda. Bill made up his mind to beat the detail over to the jail and
to follow out his original plan of rescuing his father and making their
getaway before the men arrived.
He passed down the hall and on through the lounge room, and was running
lightly down the piazza steps when a voice hailed him.
“Hey, youse! Where d’ you think yer headin’ for? Didn’t yer hear Tom
tell yer to stick around with this detail until he came?”
Bill stopped and looked back. The man called Zeppi was leaning over the
railing. Behind him ten or a dozen men were lounging in various indolent
attitudes and laughing at this diversion. Bill saw that they all carried
rifles.
“I guess youse ain’t been round dis dump long,” Zeppi was still
speaking. “Let me tell yer, kid, t’ain’t healthy to disobey orders,
‘specially Tom’s. He’s a soft-speakin’ guy, Tom is—but I seen him shoot
three guys in the last three weeks fer doin’ no more than you done just
now. Get up on this porch before he shows up, if yer ain’t tired o’
livin’.”
Bill hid his disappointment and chagrin and ran up the steps.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m half asleep, Zeppi. I didn’t think where I was
going.”
“Okay with me, kid. I’m fair sick of seein’ guys put on the spot fer
nuthin’ at all. Just remember that when yer told the _porch_, don’t go
out in the road, or anywheres else, when they’s Tom’s orders.”
“Who’s talkin’ about me,” gruffed Tom from the doorway. “Oh, it’s you,
Zeppi! Well, what’s the trouble now?”
With a sleight-of-hand motion, he jerked an automatic revolver from a
holster under his left armpit and covered the man.
“Okay, Tom.” Zeppi dropped his rifle and raised his hands above his
head. “I was just tellin’ the kid here that he should shake a leg when
it come to takin’ your orders, or—”
“Oh, _that_ was it, eh?” Tom cut him short and put away the gun. “Sorry,
Zeppi—I come near drillin’ you. I’m always a bit rough after a
sleep—must watch myself. We’re losing too many men. Get into line, you
bozos,” he commanded, “follow me by twos—march!”
Bill fell in beside Zeppi, who winked at him. The party clattered down
the steps and started along the white road at a smart pace. He felt much
as a man might who is being led to execution. His only hope was that
Tony would remain inside the jail and that the detail would not be
forced to enter.
When Tom turned into the place, motioning the others to follow him,
Bill’s usually optimistic spirits fell. Tony was found pouring over a
_Police Gazette_, his chair tilted back against the rough plaster wall.
“Hello, Tom,” he greeted, raising his eyes from the pages. Then his
chair came down with a crash and he sprang to his feet.
“What’s that feller doin’ wid you, Tom?” he cried. “What’s he done wid
Diego?”
“What feller? What you shoutin’ about, Tony?” growled the barracks boss.
Seeing that the game was up, Bill rested his gun against the wall and
stepped forward.
“It’s me he’s talking about,” he said. “I’m Bill Bolton.”