THE AMERICAN CONSUL.
“There’s a bobby,” cried Dick, catching sight of a policeman, “a real
London bobby, blue-and-white striped cuffs and all. We’ll bear down on
him, Bob, and ask the way to the American consul’s.”
The policeman was kind and obliging. Drawing the boys out into the
street, he pointed to a low, white building with the American flag
flying over the door. There were palms and trees around the building,
and a middle-aged man in white ducks was sitting in a canvas chair on
the veranda. He was Mr. Hays Jordan, and when the boys told him they
were from the submarine _Grampus_, the consul got up and took them by
the hand.
Bob lost not a moment in telling of the captain’s illness, and of his
desire for a doctor and of comfortable lodging ashore. The consul
seemed disappointed by the news.
“I reckon that puts a stop to the work that brought the _Grampus_
here,” said the consul.
“Not at all,” replied Bob. “The _Grampus_ is at the service of the
government within an hour, if necessary.”
“But who’s in charge of the boat?”
“I am.”
Mr. Hays Jordan looked Bob over, up and down, and started to give an
incredulous whistle. But there was something in the youth’s bearing,
and in the firm, gray eye that caused him to quit whistling.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “Pretty young to be skipper of a submarine,
aren’t you?”
Here Dick interposed. “He’s old for his age, if I do say it, and
Captain Nemo, junior, is a master hand at taking the sizing of a
fellow. He selected Bob Steele to engineer this piece of work, and, if
you keep your weather eye open, it won’t be long until you rise to the
fact that the captain knew what he was about.”
“The captain ought to have a doctor without loss of time,” interposed
Bob, impatient because of the time they were losing, “and he must have
a place to stay.”
“We’ll not send a sick man to the hotel,” said Mr. Jordan, “but to a
boarding house kept by an American. And we’ll also have an American
doctor to look after him.” He slapped his hands. In answer to the
summons a negro appeared from inside the house. “Go over to Doctor
Seymour, Turk,” said the consul, “and ask him to come here.”
“We might be able to save time,” put in Bob, “if my friend went with
your servant and took the doctor directly to the submarine.”
“Fine!” exclaimed the consul, and Dick and the negro hurried away.
“Sit down, my boy,” said the consul, waving his hand toward a chair,
“and we’ll chat a little. I reckon I ought not to say much to you until
I talk with Captain Nemo, junior, and make sure everything is right and
proper. Still----”
“Here are my credentials,” said Bob, and handed over the letter which
he had recently read aloud in the periscope room of the _Grampus_.
The consul glanced over the letter.
“I’ll take you on that showing, Bob Steele,” said he heartily, as he
handed the letter back. “If anything is done for my friend Coleman,
it’s got to be done with a rush. The little states all around us
are able to have a revolution whenever some one happens to think of
it. There’s one on now, and Captain James Sixty was to help on the
fighting by landing a cargo of guns and ammunition. Sixty’s work, as
you may know, was nipped in the bud, and the revolutionists are having
a hard time of it. But they’re still active, and about two weeks ago,
when Sixty failed to arrive with the war material and they were afraid
he had been captured by the United States authorities, the hotheaded
greasers planned reprisal. That reprisal was about the most foolish
thing you ever heard of. They spirited away my friend Coleman; then
they sent me a letter saying that Coleman would be released whenever
the United States government gave up Sixty--and, at that time, Sixty
wasn’t in the hands of the authorities at all. He had just simply
failed to show up with the contraband of war, and the revolutionists
imagined he had been bagged. I communicated with Washington at once,
and it was that, I reckon, that gave the state department a line on
Sixty.”
“Is Mr. Coleman in any danger?” asked Bob.
“You never can tell what a lot of firebrands will do. They’re bound
to hear of Sixty’s capture, and of the confiscation of his lawless
cargo. The news will get to them soon, and when that happens Coleman
is likely to have trouble. If possible, he must be rescued from the
revolutionists ahead of the receipt of this information about Sixty
and the lost guns. It’s a tremendously hard piece of work, and only
a submarine boat with an intrepid crew, to my notion, will stand any
show of success. If a small boat from a United States warship was to
try to go to the rescue, the revolutionists would learn she was coming
and would immediately take to the jungles of the interior with their
captive. See what I mean?”
“Mr. Coleman’s captors are somewhere on the sea-coast?”
“Not exactly. They have a rendezvous on the River Izaral, which runs
into the Gulf of Amatique, to the south of here. The revolutionists
have tried to make people think that they have Coleman somewhere on
the Rio Dolce, but that would put the whole unlawful game in British
territory, and wherever the British flag flies you’ll find lawbreakers
mighty careful.”
The consul looked around cautiously and then hitched his chair closer
to Bob’s.
“I haven’t been idle, Bob Steele,” he went on, lowering his voice. “I
have had spies at work, and one of them has reported the exact location
of the revolutionists’ camp. Acting as a log cutter, he came close to
the place. This man will lead you to the exact spot--and, as good luck
has it, he’s a pilot and knows the coast.”
“I should think,” hazarded Bob, “that the United States government
could make a demand on the president of the republic where all this
lawless work is going on, and force him to rescue Mr. Coleman.”
The consul laughed.
“You don’t know Central America, my lad,” he answered. “It’s as hard
for the president of the republic to get at the revolutionists as for
anybody else. Meanwhile, Coleman’s in danger. We can’t wait for a whole
lot of useless red-tape proceedings. We’ve got to strike, and to strike
hard and quick. But we’ve got to do it secretly, quietly--getting
Coleman away before the revolutionists know what we’re doing.
Understand?”
Bob nodded.
“We’ll not do any fighting if it’s possible to avoid it,” proceeded the
consul, “for that would merely complicate matters. Besides, what could
a handful of strangers do against a horde of rascally niggers? Softly
is the word. We’ve got to jump into ’em, and then out again quicker
than scat--and when we come out, we’ve got to have Coleman.”
“Are you going with us, Mr. Jordan?” asked Bob.
The consul started and gave Bob a bored look.
“Going with you?” he drawled. “Why not? It isn’t often we have anything
exciting, here in Honduras, and I wouldn’t miss the chance for a farm.
Coleman lives where he never knows what minute is going to be his last,
and he’s continually guessing as to where the lightning is going to
strike, and when. About all I do is lie around in a hammock, fight
mosquitoes, take a feed now and then at Government House, and drop
in at an English club here every evening for a rubber at whist. It’s
deadly monotonous, my lad, to a fellow who comes from the land of snap
and ginger.”
“I’ll be glad to have you along,” said Bob. “When had we better start?”
“This afternoon.” The consul picked his solar hat off the railing
of the veranda and got up. “I’m going over to the boarding house,”
he added, “to make arrangements for Captain Nemo, junior. It’s just
around the corner, and I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Make yourself
comfortable until I return.”
“I’ll get along all right,” answered Bob.
Jordan got up, descended the steps, swung away down the street, and
quickly vanished around a corner.
The scenery was all new and strange to Bob, and he allowed his eyes to
wander up and down the street. The houses were white bungalows, some
of them surrounded by high white fences, and with tufted palms nodding
over their roofs.
Negro women passed by with baskets on their heads, dark-skinned
laborers in bell-crowned straw hats slouched up and down, and a group
of tawny soldiers from a West India regiment, wearing smart Zouave
uniforms and turbans, jogged past.
As soon as Bob had exhausted the sights in his immediate vicinity, he
lay back in the chair and gave his thoughts to the captain.
He had always liked Nemo, junior. The captain had been a good friend
to Bob Steele and his chums, and the young motorist hoped in his heart
that his present illness would not take a serious turn.
While Bob was turning the subject over in his mind, two men came along
the walk and started for the steps leading to the veranda of the
consulate.
Bob, suddenly lifting his eyes, was surprised to note that one of the
men was Cassidy. The other was a white, sandy-whiskered individual in a
dingy blue coat and cap and much-worn dungaree trousers.
Both were plainly under the influence of liquor. They came unsteadily
up the steps and Cassidy made a bee line for Bob.
Cassidy’s weather-beaten face was flushed and there was an angry,
unreasoning light in his eyes.
“I’m next to you, Bob Steele,” growled the mate, posting himself in
front of the youth and clinching his big fists. “You’ve pulled the wool
over the old man’s eyes in great shape, but you can’t fool _me!_”
Cassidy, when his mind was clear and when he was not under the delusion
of a fancied wrong, was a good fellow. He had cared for Captain Nemo,
junior, when he was lying ill in New Orleans, and countless times he
had given Bob and his chums proof of his friendship for them. Cassidy
was off his bearings now, but Bob felt more like arguing with him than
showing authority.
“You are not yourself, Cassidy,” said the young motorist. “Why did you
leave the _Grampus?_”
“That’s my business,” snarled the mate.
“Well, take my advice and go back there. No one is trying to deceive
the captain.”
“You’ve wormed yourself into his confidence, and what has he done to
me?” There was bitterness in the mate’s voice. “I’m the one that ought
to be cap’n of the submarine, and, by thunder, I’m going to be!”
Bob got up from his chair, his eyes flashing.
“You’re going to obey orders, Cassidy,” said he, “if you want to stay
with the _Grampus_. I’m in command, and I’ll give you just a minute to
leave here and make for the wharf. If----”
At that moment the mate’s crazy wrath got the better of him. With a
hoarse oath, he lurched forward and struck at Bob with his fist. Bob
avoided the blow with a quick side step.
“Now’s yer chance, Cassidy,” breathed the husky voice of the man who
had come with the mate. “It’s now or never if you want to put him down
an’ out.”
The fellow, as he spoke, slouched toward Bob with doubled fists. Bob
had not the same consideration for this stranger that he had for the
mate, and immediately after evading Cassidy’s blow he whirled about.
“Who are you?” he demanded sharply.
For answer, the man tried to get in a blow on his own account. But he
was not quick enough. With a nimble leap forward, Bob swung his own
fist straight from the shoulder. The dingy blue cap flew off and its
owner reeled against the side of the building. Just then Bob felt the
arms of the mate going around him from behind.
At the same moment, however, footsteps came swiftly along the walk,
mounted the steps, and Cassidy was caught by the throat in a firm grip.