THE FOILING OF THE PLOT
It was noon, and Namoto sat in his library, waiting.
He was alone. All preparations had been made for instant flight. His
household treasures, his heirlooms, his followers, with Togi in charge,
had been sent to the yacht, that, with steam up, was lying at its
moorings. The captain had reported the disposition of the prisoner, and
had received his master's commendation. And now, after measureless toil
and risk and scheming, Namoto prepared to taste the sweets of victory.
How near that victory was! The ceremonies were to begin at twelve. He
saw in imagination the crowded wharves and banks, the shouting throngs,
the stately ships, as, decked with flags, they moved slowly up the bay to
the entrance of the Canal. As the first one entered the locks there was
to be a salvo of artillery from all the vessels of the fleet. And then,
his turn would come. A slight pressure on that button, and there would
be a crash, a roar that would echo around the world. Japan would hear
and rejoice; America would hear and tremble. To the one, it would be the
signal of glorious triumph; to the other, the crack of doom.
There it was, now! Through the window came the boom of guns. He waited
till the echoes died away.
Then, smiling, he forced the button down, and listened for the thunder of
the explosion.
Silence!
Wonderingly, he pressed again.
And again, the silence of the grave!
Wildly, desperately, frantically, he pushed down with all his strength.
Then, pale as ashes, he rose to his feet.
He had failed. How or why, he did not know. But, he had failed. He had
gambled for great stakes and lost.
He could still escape. His yacht was waiting. He walked with a firm
step over to the wall, and took down a dagger that had belonged to his
ancestors.
And when Togi and the captain, alarmed at his non-appearance, burst into
the room an hour later, they found him there. His home in Japan, his
beloved Nippon, would never see him again. His soul had gone in search
of that other home, promised by his creed to those who die for their
country--the home of the immortal gods.
* * * * * * *
And all through that day and many days succeeding, the great Atlantic
fleet climbed over the ridges of the continent and dropped into the
Pacific. And out on that vast expanse, other ships, under another flag,
melted away on the horizon, like the passing of an evil dream. The
threat of invasion was over. In Tokio, they writhed in secret over the
miscarriage of their plans, while in the inner circles of Washington
there was unfeigned relief and rejoicing. And all America, unknowing of
the peril so narrowly escaped, gloried over the successful opening to the
world of the great Panama Canal.
For, as had been predicted, the matter was hushed up and buried in the
official archives--that graveyard of so many tragedies, actual and
impending. Those who knew were pledged to secrecy. Some day, perhaps,
when the time was ripe, America would demand with interest the debt due
from Japan. But while there could be no public recognition of Bert's
services, he cherished as one of his choicest treasures a personal letter
from the President thanking him for his splendid achievement in behalf of
the nation.
And now they were on their way home, their hearts aglow with patriotism,
after the stupendous proof of their country's genius and destiny, as
shown in the great Canal.
Wah Lee, who had been under the close watch kept on all the household,
after Bert was discovered, had escaped from the yacht, in the confusion
following the death of Namoto, and sought refuge with the boys. His
delight at finding Bert safe and sound was only second to that of Dick
and Tom. At his earnest entreaties, they had agreed to take him to
"Amelika" and look after his future fortunes. He was hobnobbing now with
some of his yellow-skinned compatriots in the steerage, while the boys
sat on the upper deck of the liner, as it drew away from Colon.
"It's a burning shame," Tom was saying, hotly. "You saved the country
from disaster, and scarcely anyone knows it."
"Yes," asserted Dick, emphatically, "your name ought to be a household
word all over the United States."
"Easy there, fellows," said Bert. "Anyone else could have done it. I
simply had the chance and took it. It was sheer luck."
"No," cried Dick. "It was sheer pluck."
He had struck the keynote of his comrade's character. And, in Bert's
later career, that quality of pluck persisted. In the field of sport it
was soon to be as prominent as in the dashing adventure through which he
had just come triumphant. How brilliantly it came to the fore in the
exciting struggle that awaited him will be seen in "_Bert Wilson's
Twin-cylinder Racer._"
The End