A COMPANY AGENT
“This must be the place. A filthy looking little office.”
Mr. Livingston had paused before a doorway on a shadeless, rather
depressing back street of Cartagena. Only a moment before, a carriage
had deposited the Scout leader and the four Explorers at an address
where they hoped to obtain information concerning Appleby Corning.
The day was uncomfortably warm. Since arriving eighteen hours earlier at
the Caribbean port, the Scouts had waited expectantly at their hotel.
No word had come from Mr. Livingston’s friend, the mining engineer, who
had promised to meet and personally escort them to the Last Chance mine
above Emerald Valley in the eastern Andes.
Learning that the company which controlled the emerald mine, had a
Cartagena as well as a Bogota office, the Scouts finally had set out to
find the former.
“This is the company office all right,” Jack Hartwell confirmed,
consulting an address scribbled in his notebook.
“In we go,” the Scout leader urged.
He led the way into the untidy quarters of the Bolton Mining Company
offices. The outside room in which the Explorers found themselves was
both deserted and dusty. Old magazines and mining journals cluttered the
tables and chairs.
“No one here,” Warwick remarked uneasily.
Ken, however, crossed the room to an inner doorway which opened into
another office.
“I beg your pardon,” he said apologetically. “Good morning.”
The words were addressed to a man, who sat half-hidden behind a
battered, roll-top desk. He wore no coat or necktie and had not shaved
that day.
Seeing Ken in the doorway, the agent’s feet came down from the desk
where they had been resting. His mouth dropped open to expose unclean,
broken teeth.
“Good morning,” Ken repeated pleasantly. “Are you the agent for the
Bolton Mining Company?”
“That’s me,” the man growled. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Unprepared for such an indifferent reception, Ken stepped aside so that
Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts could enter. The company agent
regarded them with obvious annoyance.
“Well, what d’you want?” he demanded again as no one spoke.
“My name is George Livingston,” the Scout leader introduced himself.
“You probably know why I am here.”
“Never heard of you.”
Somewhat taken aback by the agent’s blunt reply, Mr. Livingston
introduced Ken, Jack, Willie and Warwick. The mining company man merely
stared at them with complete lack of interest.
“You are Ferd Baronni?” Mr. Livingston inquired, as the agent failed to
introduce himself. He had been informed at the hotel as to the company
representative’s name.
“That’s right. You got business with me?”
“Appleby Corning didn’t tell you we were coming to Colombia?”
“I ain’t seen Corning in three months. And if I don’t see him for
another three, it will be soon enough!”
Mr. Livingston ignored the remark. “Mr. Corning agreed to meet us here,”
he told the agent. “It seems there’s something wrong at the Last Chance
mine, and he wanted us to help him out.”
“There’s always trouble at the mine,” Ferd Baronni growled. He eyed the
Scout leader suspiciously. “What did he send word to you for?”
“Mr. Corning didn’t explain. He merely forwarded plane fares and asked
us to come.”
“Corning paid your way here? I always knew that guy was half crazy and
this proves it! What does he figure you can do to get the mine on a
paying basis? You an engineer, huh?”
“No, I’m a Boy Scout leader.”
The agent’s thin lips parted in a hard, mirthless smile. “You’ll be a
big help!” he said sarcastically.
“Sure! You’ll never be able to stand the climate at the Last Chance.
It’s a lot colder than Bogota. I advise you to climb back on a plane and
return to the States.”
“We’re asking for information, not advice,” Mr. Livingston said
pleasantly. “Do you know when Mr. Corning is likely to get here?”
“You know more about it than I do,” the agent shrugged.
“You are the representative of the company,” Mr. Livingston reminded
him.
“Sure, but Corning’s comings and goings ain’t none of my affair. It’s my
job to ship out the emeralds. Lately, there ain’t been any to ship.” The
agent smiled in grim satisfaction. “If you want it straight, your friend
has fallen down on the job. He came here talking big—oh, he was going to
clean up the mess at the Last Chance—get the cooperation of the workers,
and open up a big vein! What’s he done? Failed like they all do.”
“You’ve handled company affairs for quite a while, I take it?” the Scout
leader questioned.
“Twelve years. Part of the time I’m at the Bogota office.”
“Tell us a little about the Last Chance mine,” Mr. Livingston urged.
“Nothing to tell. Emerald mining is a government monopoly here, but an
American outfit got a concession. The best emeralds in the world are
found in Colombia.” For the first time, since the Scouts had met him,
Mr. Baronni showed enthusiasm. “The Last Chance has been worked off and
on before the coming of the Spaniards. But the mine’s playing out. Since
your friend Corning took over, production has dropped alarmingly. Any
day now I expect to get word from the company to close down completely.”
“Sounds rather discouraging,” Mr. Livingston commented. “What seems to
be the trouble?”
“Corning doesn’t know how to handle the Indians. They steal him blind.
Another thing, the mine is playing out. It’s up to him to find another
vein of emeralds, and find it quick. The former engineer should have
been left in charge.”
Mr. Livingston eyed the agent thoughtfully, but made no comment. It had
been apparent from the first, that Ferd Baronni had no love for Appleby
Corning.
“Want to see some emeralds?” the agent invited, pulling himself
reluctantly from a swivel chair.
From an old-fashioned safe, he removed a cigar box. Almost reverently,
he fingered a handful of large emeralds contained within. One which he
offered Mr. Livingston was soft to the touch, very dark in color and had
smoldering fire.
Another, somewhat smaller, was a shade lighter. Instead of having a
subdued glow, it seemed to blaze with flame.
“Now this one’s a first quality emerald,” the agent informed the awed
group. “We ain’t getting many of ’em any more from the Last Chance.”
“You say the mine is likely to close down?” Mr. Livingston questioned.
“Any day now. Then the workers will drift off to find work elsewhere.
Once a mine shuts down, vegetation takes over. That’s how so many
once-rich veins have been lost.”
“Mr. Corning didn’t tell you we were coming?”
“Not a word.”
“Our cables I think, came through here. Or perhaps they were sent by way
of Santa Marta.”
“That’s the big banana shipping port. Corning has friends there. Your
message to him still may be there uncollected.”
“But he knew we were coming,” Mr. Livingston said in a worried voice.
“He promised to meet us here at Cartagena.”
“Sure it wasn’t Santa Marta or Bogota?”
“Of course not. We wouldn’t make a mistake as stupid as that. How can we
get word to him?”
“No way,” the agent replied indifferently. “When Corning gets around to
it, if he ain’t too busy, he may drop down to Santa Marta. Or maybe to
Bogota. Lately, he’s been sending his emeralds to the office there—when
he has any to send, which ain’t often.”
“Can’t we get word to the mine?”
“There’s no railroad. Only a mule track. My advice is to see Cartagena
and if he doesn’t show up in a few days, take a boat back to the
States.”
The agent’s advice was most discouraging to the Scouts. After talking
with Baronni for a while longer, they gloomily returned to their hotel
to think over the situation.
“I can’t believe Appleby would let us down,” Mr. Livingston told the
Explorers. “He’ll get word to us soon. Meanwhile, we may as well do a
little sightseeing.”
“We haven’t any too much cash,” Ben reminded the group. “In making our
plans, we figured on Mr. Corning putting us up at the mine. If we run a
fancy hotel bill here for a week or so, it will make quite a dent in our
funds.”
“Appleby will show up within a couple of days,” Mr. Livingston insisted.
“Let’s not worry about it.”
With time heavy upon their hands, the four Explorers thoroughly explored
the delightful port of Cartagena. They visited the old reservoir, the
ancient walls, the harbor and the fine residential section.
But after three days of leisurely sightseeing, the Scouts wearied of the
quiet old city. Each morning they called upon Ferd Baronni to ask if any
word had been received from Appleby Corning. Each day, the answer was in
the negative.
“Better forget about the Last Chance mine,” the agent advised them
gruffly. “You can catch a boat tomorrow for the States. After that,
there won’t be another for a week.”
Mr. Livingston shook his head. “Mr. Corning sent for us. I’m unwilling
to return without at least making an effort to contact him.”
“Suit yourself,” the agent shrugged. “You got a long wait ahead
probably.”
“We can’t afford to lose any more time. I’ve practically decided to go
on to the Bogota office.”
Baronni straightened in his swivel chair. “Some company officials live
there, but the office is closed most of the time,” he informed the Scout
leader. “If you’re dead set on pulling out of here, you’d have a better
chance of learning about your friend at Santa Marta.”
“Very well. How do we get there? Can you help us, or shall we make
arrangements ourselves?”
Ferd Baronni gazed steadily at Mr. Livingston a moment. “I’ll make the
arrangements, if you’re determined to go,” he said. “I got a friend who
runs a sled boat between here and Calamar. When you get there you can
take a boat.”
“Fine!”
“Be at the dock tomorrow at seven,” the agent advised, writing an
address on a slip of paper.
The Scouts thanked him for his trouble, and went back to the hotel to
pack. Their spirits soared at the prospect of leaving Cartagena. At
dinner however, Jack noticed that Mr. Livingston was unusually quiet.
“Worried?” he inquired.
“Not exactly.”
“You’re afraid we may not find Mr. Corning at Santa Marta?” Jack
guessed.
“The thought does bother me. It’s a little out of our way in going to
the mine. Another thing—”
“What’s that?” Jack asked as the Scout leader hesitated.
“I’m borrowing trouble, I guess. But I can’t help wishing I hadn’t
allowed Ferd Baronni to make our travel arrangements. He seemed too
eager to do it.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“Not entirely,” Mr. Livingston admitted. “He dislikes Appleby Corning.
Furthermore, he’s resented our mission here.”
“I noticed that. We could cancel the arrangements.”
The Scout leader considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No,
we’ll let them stand,” he decided. “I’m ashamed of my suspicions. The
sled-boat trip should prove to be an interesting diversion. I’m looking
forward to it.”