BILLY BARNES TAKES THE WARPATH.
The next day Frank and Harry busied themselves in their father’s
laboratory during most of the morning. They had been delighted to find
such a completely equipped repository of chemicals as it proved to be,
and their admiration of their father’s researches was only equalled by
their natural surprise at finding such a workshop on a Nicaraguan
plantation.
“I always knew you were a great dab at chemistry, father,” remarked
Harry, “but I never dreamed that you had a regular Institute of
Scientific Research on tap.”
“By the way,” asked Frank, who had been busy taking stock of the various
chemicals, “have you any picric acid here, father?”
“I believe I have, my boy,” replied Mr. Chester, “but that’s dangerous
stuff to fool with. You know it’s a high explosive.”
“Perfectly,” rejoined Frank, “and it’s for that very reason I want it.”
“I confess I don’t understand you,” was his father’s reply.
“It’s simply this,” replied Frank, with a smile at his bewilderment, “it
has become a by no means uncommon practice, though of course most of the
better class clubs have made rules against it, to mix picric acid with
gasolene in racing motor boats and air crafts. It is usually very
injurious to the engine, however, and I don’t suppose any one would want
to use it except in an emergency.”
“What do you want it for, then?” asked his father in surprise.
“Well, I believe in always looking ahead, for very often it’s the
unexpected that happens,” rejoined Frank. “Our engine now can turn up
1200 revolutions a minute. I believe that with the use of picric acid in
the gasolene we could give her as much additional power as 1500
revolutions a minute.”
“Well?” inquired his father expectantly.
“That being so,” went on Frank, “the _Golden Eagle_ would have just that
much more lifting power, the stability of an airship depending upon the
speed at which she travels through the atmosphere. So you see,” he
concluded with a smile, “that some day we might want to carry an extra
passenger and in that case a gallon of picric acid would come in mighty
handy.”
After a little more argument Frank won his point, and that night the
boys stored aboard the _Golden Eagle_—after first carefully seeing that
it was not in a position where it was likely to prove dangerous—a stone
carboy of the explosive acid. They had hardly completed the work when
the sound of wheels was heard on the drive, and when they reentered the
house they found that Don Pachecho and his beautiful daughter were the
visitors.
Señora Ruiz showed plain evidences of her suffering over the news of her
husband’s death. The boys, who had heard of the disastrous battle from
their father, avoided all reference of course to the revolution, but it
was Don Pachecho himself who brought the subject up.
“Have you heard the latest news of the revolution. Señor?” he asked,
after the introductions were over, and Billy had whispered to Harry what
a fine photograph of “an old Spanish don” Mr. Chester’s neighbor would
make.
Mr. Chester shook his head. Indeed, since a couple of days before the
man who carried messages and letters between the hacienda and Greytown,
had reported that Zelaya’s forces had cut the telegraph wires and taken
complete charge of the cables, the party at the plantation had heard
nothing of the movements of either the insurgents or the troops of the
government.
“I learned from a party of rubber-cutters who passed the plantation
to-day,” went on Don Pachecho, “that Estrada’s troops have suffered a
further defeat and that Zelaya’s men, under General Rogero, crazed with
their victories are burning and destroying property and committing all
sorts of outrages everywhere.”
“Where was this last defeat?” asked Mr. Chester, seriously.
“It cannot have been more than fifty miles from here,” continued Don
Pachecho, “that is what makes it so ominous. It means,” he went on, his
voice rising, “that if Estrada cannot hold them in check that the
government troops will drive him back on Greytown within a few hours and
then you know what will happen,” he shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, we can hardly expect much mercy from Rogero,” commented Mr.
Chester. He then described to Don Pachecho what had taken place in
Greytown the day that he had met the boys and Billy Barnes. Billy
himself also conveyed his suspicions of Rogero as the murderer of Dr.
Moneague.
The old don was greatly agitated at this news.
“Ah, the inhuman scoundrel!” he cried, raising his wrinkled hands above
his head, “it was without doubt he that killed Moneague. And he now
holds the secret of the lost mines. With his power over Zelaya and the
wealth that is now at his disposal, he can speedily become powerful
enough to ruin us all. I am an old man, Señors, but I do not think that
of all the men I have ever seen, that I have met one who was this man’s
equal in the resources of evil. Woe betide the man who falls into his
clutches.”
Billy had been listening to this conversation with great attention and
he now struck in with:
“What do you suppose he has done with the plan of the lost mines, sir?”
Don Pachecho shrugged his shoulders.
“Señor Barnes, there is only one thing that he can do with it, and that
is to keep it always about him. I do not suppose it has been off his
immediate person since he killed poor Moneague.”
Billy sat lost in thought for a while. Then he raised his head.
“I suppose if he lost it he’d cut up at a great rate,” he said, “at any
rate, he’d give more attention to getting it back than to keep on
licking the revolutionists.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Hum,” said Billy, in a way he had when he had arrived at any important
conclusion.
In the moonlight the party walked down to where the _Golden Eagle_ lay
under her extemporized garage, or rather aerodrome. Even Señora Ruiz
forgot for a second her deep sorrow as she gazed at the beautiful
creation, its graceful wings shimmered and silvered by the brilliant
moonlight.
“Oh, Señors,” she cried, “you built this wonderful fly thing all
yourselves?”
When their father had replied for the blushing Frank and Harry in the
affirmative, the Spanish woman clasped her hands impulsively.
“But you are—oh, pardon me—but you are so young—chico, is it not so?”
“I take it that ‘chico’ is Spanish for ‘kids,’” remarked the
irrepressible Billy _sotto voce_ to Harry. What the latter might have
replied to this, however, was cut short by a startling thing that
occurred at that moment.
Frank who had been bending over the engine had given a loud exclamation.
“Harry—father—Billy, come here quick!” he exclaimed excitedly.
They ran toward him.
“Look here,” cried the boy, pointing to the engine, “some one has been
tampering with the carbureter. They knew we could not replace it here
without weeks of delay.”
“And by jimminy crickets!” cried Billy, who had been examining the
engine on his own hook, “they must have been scared away just as we came
down. See here,” went on the reporter, “they left in such a hurry that
one of them forgot his hat and the sweatband is still warm and damp.
Whoever monkeyed with this engine took off his hat to do it and he
couldn’t have been at work very long for the hat’s still warm and
besides, see here, he has only given the carbureter a few turns.”
Mr. Chester took the hat that the excited Billy thrust at him and
regarded it with some attention. It was a greasy battered affair, but it
was trimmed with a new black ribbon on which was sewn in red thread the
words “Viva Zelaya.”
“Not difficult to trace some of our old friend Rogero’s work here,” he
said. “He evidently means to keep his threat to prevent your flying.”
“We shall have to do sentry duty here for the rest of the night, Harry,”
said Frank in a determined voice.
“You bet we will,” agreed his younger brother; an injury to their ship
affected these boys far more than any hurt they themselves might
sustain.
Rifles were secured from the house, also blankets, and the boys made up
a regular camp-fire round which they sat long after Don Pachecho and his
bereaved daughter had driven off and the lights in the house had been
extinguished.
“I tell you what, Frank,” said Harry, “we have simply got to take a hand
in this thing now. You know that if that fellow Rogero ever gets as far
as this what he means to do to this plantation.”
“I know,” rejoined his brother, “he would take delight in ruining what
father has built up and then blaming it on his troops and the worst of
it is we would never be able to get any redress.”
Both boys were silent for several minutes, thinking things over.
“What’s the matter with taking a little spin in the _Golden Eagle_
to-morrow and finding out just where he is, then we can shape our plans
accordingly,” suddenly broke out Harry.
“Yes, but look here, Harry,” replied the conservative Frank, “you know
that we are supposed to be non-combatants.”
“Oh, hang being non-combatants!” rejoined Harry, “we are not going to
sit here and see our father’s plantation destroyed by this ruffian, are
we? and you know too,” he went on, “that the amiable cuss promised to
give us a chance to see the inside of a prison if he could lay his hands
on us.”
“You are right there, Harry,” agreed Frank, looking up, “if the
revolutionists are driven back any closer we shall have to take up arms
to protect ourselves. It has never been the way of Americans to let any
one walk all over them without registering a kick.”
“You bet ours is going to be an emphatic one, too,” enthusiastically
cried Harry; “give me your hand, old chap—shake. It’s a go?”
“Yes,” replied Frank slowly, “it’s a go.”
“Hurrah,” shouted Harry, sitting up with his blanket up to his chin,
“we’ll give you the spin of your life to-morrow, old _Golden Eagle_.”
It had been agreed that Frank was to take the first watch, and so while
the elder brother sat rifle in hand, guarding the aeroplane in which
they were destined to have such strange adventures in the immediate
future, Harry slumbered the sleep of the just.
“I’ve only been asleep five minutes,” he protested when Frank woke him
to do his “trick” on guard.
“You’ve had a three-hour nap,” laughed Frank, “and snored loud enough to
have brought the whole of Zelaya’s army on us if they’d been around.”
Whoever the man was who had tried to disable the _Golden Eagle_, he did
not put in any further appearance that night, nor did anything happen to
vary the monotony of the night-watch. As soon as it was daylight the
boys raced for the bath, plunged in, and after a refreshing swim made
for the house.
They made for Billy’s room intending to drag that sleep-loving young
person out and duck him head over heels into the bath at the deep end.
To their amazement the room was empty. The bed had not been slept in.
Moreover, Billy’s camera and canteen were missing.
Pinned to the bedclothes was the following characteristic note, the
effect of which on the boys may be imagined.
“DEAR FRANK AND HARRY.
“I have gone to get the plans that Rogero stole
from Moneague. It will make a bully picture to go
with my story when he is pinched. It is about up to
me to do something. Regards to your father. Please
apologize to him for my unceremonious departure for
the warpath. Good luck to you, and I wish myself
the same. So long.
BILLY BARNES.”
Frank gave a long whistle as he read this document.
“Well, of all the——,” began Harry, and stopped. Words failed to express
his feelings.
“This settles it,” said Frank suddenly with decision, “we’ve got to get
after Rogero, now.”
“You mean that Billy——,” began Harry.
“I mean that we’re not going to let Billy get shot for a bit of
pottery,” cut in Frank.
“The _Golden Eagle_ will sail at nine o’clock,” he added. “Come on,
Harry—we’ve just time for a bit of breakfast, and then for the air.”