THE DON’S PROPOSAL.
Before the don could follow Fingal’s suggestion and unburden himself
of what he wanted to say, the splash and gurgle of water entering the
submersion tanks reached the ears of those in the steel room. At the
same moment a shiver ran through the boat’s fabric and she began to
sink.
“What are you doing?” demanded Bob sharply.
“Going under the water,” explained the don affably. “We’re off Port
Livingstone and are going to proceed up the Izaral without being seen.”
“What’s that for? If the town and the fort are in the hands of the
rebels, you won’t have anything to fear.”
“We don’t know whether the rebels have captured the fort yet or not,”
said the don, “and we don’t want to take any chances of being sunk by
the fort’s guns in case they are still in the hands of the enemy.”
“If you don’t know anything about this boat,” said Bob, “you’ll get us
all into trouble trying to maneuver it.”
“Gaines an’ Clackett, I guess,” put in Fingal, “will keep us from
gettin’ inter any very serious fix. They’re helpin’ run the craft,
ye know,” Fingal leered cunningly. “Go ahead, don,” he added, as the
submarine halted its downward plunge and started onward again.
“Bob Steele,” said the don, “I have a proposition to make to you and
your men. You will find it to your interest, I think, to accept it.”
“What’s the proposition?” asked Bob curtly.
The more Bob Steele studied Don Ramon, the more puzzling the man
became. His English was good, and yet he was undeniably of Spanish
descent. Somehow Bob was gathering the idea that the don was a native
of Central America, and not of Spain; yet Bob knew that this could not
be, for he had heard that the Spanish consul at Belize hailed from
Barcelona.
“My friend Fingal,” proceeded the don, “appears to think that you and
your men owe him something on account of what happened during your
former visit to the River Izaral, and----”
“So they do!” growled Fingal, with a savage frown; “they owe me
somethin’ not only on account o’ that, but on account o’ my brother,
Jim Sixty. If it hadn’t been for them, Jim would never have got nabbed
by the United States gov’ment for filibusterin’. I swore I’d git even
with ’em for----”
“Forget that for a little, Fingal,” interposed the don. “I’ve reasoned
with Fingal,” he said to Bob, “and he has agreed to let bygones be
bygones, providing you fall in with our plans.”
He paused, his piercing eyes on the young motorist’s face.
“I’m waiting to hear what your plans are,” said Bob.
“We captured this boat for the revolutionists,” continued the don, “and
she will be of great help to General Pitou in his work; but, in order
to be as efficient as possible, the craft ought to be manned with her
regular crew. So----”
“Then that story you told us about General Mendez, and about the trap
Pitou was laying for him, was untrue?”
“Much of it was not the exact truth,” the don cheerfully admitted.
“General Mendez and his force are not far from the Purgatoire River,
but it is he who is laying the trap for Pitou, and not Pitou for him.
General Pitou will have to capture the fort at the mouth of the
Izaral and be able to turn its guns on General Mendez, or the loyalist
forces will drive the rebels into the sea. In order to keep track of
Mendez, we need the submarine for scout duty up and down the river.
Now, Bob Steele, you are thoroughly familiar with the boat, and our
proposal is that you and your men take charge of her and render gallant
service for General Pitou. Some of our men, of course, will stay on the
boat to make sure that you prove faithful to your promises to us, but
that will be a mere formality.
“If you will do this, I promise to pay you the sum, in gold, that I
mentioned when talking to you in the harbor at Belize. Furthermore, in
the event that General Pitou’s uprising is successful, and we make him
dictator of the country, you and your friends will share liberally in
the division of the spoils. What do you say? You are young men--mere
youths, in fact--and such a golden prospect ought to appeal to you.”
Bob stared at the don. “And you,” he breathed, “are the Spanish consul
at Belize! What would happen to you if they knew, in Spain, how you are
meddling with the affairs of a country with which your own is at peace?”
“I might just as well puncture that bubble here and now,” returned the
don, with a laugh. “I am not Don Ramon Ortega, the Spanish consul, but
Don Carlos Valdez, the revolutionist.”
Bob started back. “Don Carlos Valdez!” he exclaimed. “We heard about
you in Belize, Don Carlos.”
“And what do they say about me in Belize?”
“Why, that you’re the greatest rascal unhung!”
“They say more than that,” added Speake wrathfully, “and that you’ll
_be_ hung, one o’ these fine days.”
Speake was chagrined and spiteful because of the way he and his mates
had been taken in by the plausible revolutionist at the start-off. He
saw, now, how farsighted Bob Steele was in refusing to have anything to
do with the don.
Carlos Valdez smiled ironically. “What they say doesn’t make any
material difference,” he answered. “I have been in Belize for a week.
I walked the streets openly, and no one dared to molest me. Why, I
even went to the Spanish consul and asked for a passport. While he was
preparing to make it out, I felled him with a blow and left him bound
and gagged in his own sitting room. I had to do that, you see, before I
dared to call on you, Bob Steele, and impersonate him.”
“At any rate,” said Bob Steele, “I am glad of one thing.”
“And that is?”
“That Don Ramon Ortega is not the villain I know you to be.”
“Your opinion counts for as little as does that of the people of
Belize,” returned the don easily. “You have not answered my question as
to whether you and your men would accept our proposal.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary to answer it,” said Bob. “I would blow
up the _Grampus_ before I would allow her to fall into the hands of
General Pitou.”
“Better think well before you make a foolish answer like that,” struck
in Fingal.
“That’s my answer, just the same.”
“How about the rest of you?” The don turned to Dick and Speake.
“What Bob Steele says matches my sentiments to a dot,” replied Dick.
“Mine, too,” added Speake. “If me and my mates had obeyed Bob Steele
like we’d ought to have done, we’d never have got into this fix in the
first place. It may be a little late in the day, but here’s where I
begin carryin’ out his orders jest as he gives ’em.”
“Do you know what this decision means?” queried the don gravely.
“I’m not thinking of that, but of my duty to Captain Nemo, junior,”
said Bob.
“It means,” fumed Fingal, enraged at the refusal of Bob and his friends
to cast their lot with the revolutionists, “that you’ll never live to
get back to Belize!”
“Or even back down the river to Port Livingstone,” supplemented the
don. “Presently we are going to tie up at an old landing on the river
bank. After that, we will leave you by yourselves until nightfall. This
will give you a little more time to think over our proposition. Life is
a pleasant thing to young men like you, and you ought not to cast it
lightly aside. Come on, Fingal,” he finished.
The don and Fingal stepped back into the periscope room, closing and
locking the door behind them.
Dick went over to his cot and sat down with a mirthless laugh.
“The old Spaniard has given us his ultimatum,” said he. “We must either
run the submarine for the revolutionists, or go to Davy Jones. Pleasant
prospect, eh?”
“Wonder if they’ve batted up the same proposition to Gaines and
Clackett?” mused Speake.
“Probably they have,” said Bob. “They want to secure the services of
the submarine’s crew, and Gaines and Clackett are important members of
the ship’s company.”
“What sort of a move would it be,” suggested Dick, “to pretend to join
the swabs and then, watching our chances, cut and run back to Belize?”
Bob shook his head.
“They wouldn’t trust us even if we agreed to join them. Didn’t you
hear what was said about having an armed guard constantly on the boat,
as a ‘mere formality?’ No, Dick, the best thing for us will be to come
out flatfooted and let the rascals know just where we stand. If they
attempt to take any desperate measures against us, we will claim the
protection of Old Glory.”
“What do they care about a piece of bunting?” returned Dick. “See how
they ran off that American consul! Why, these revolutionists aren’t
responsible for any thing, and they’ll do just what they please.”
In his own heart, Bob himself felt that Dick was stating the exact
truth.
While the boys and Speake were talking, the turbines could be heard
emptying the ballast tanks, and the boat began slowly rising. A little
later the boys knew they were on the surface of the river. Steps were
heard running along the deck, overhead, and a sound of voices came to
them. Then there was a bumping along one side of the hull, a stopping
of the motor, and the submarine was at a halt.
“I suppose we’re tied up at that landing,” observed Dick, “and here
we’re to stay and think matters over until nightfall, as the don put
it. By the way, isn’t it about time to eat? You and I, Bob, haven’t had
a mouthful since last night.”
The words were hardly off of Dick’s lips when the door leading into the
periscope room opened and closed. The prisoners caught a glimpse of
armed men standing in the other chamber, and then gave their attention
to the boy who had entered with a basket.
The lad still had his stocking cap drawn down over his ears, and the
collar of his jacket turned up about his throat.
“What have you got?” demanded Speake. “If it’s grub, set it down. We
was jest wonderin’ if your outfit was calculatin’ on starvin’ us to
death.”
The boy’s actions were peculiar, to say the least. Laying a finger on
his lips, he bent his ear to the edge of the door and listened; then,
turning around, he jerked off his stocking cap.
“Bob,” he whispered excitedly, “don’t you know me?”
Bob gazed at the lad’s handsome face like one stupefied.
“Ysabel!” he murmured; “Ysabel Sixty!”
“Jupiter!” gasped Speake.
“Great guns!” muttered Dick.