He bent toward his instrument, and Gordon raised himself from his
chair and stood beside him as he read it off. The two young men hardly
breathed in the intensity of their interest.
"Dear Stedman," he slowly read aloud. "You and your young friend are a
couple of fools. If you had allowed me to send you the messages
awaiting transmission here to you, you would not have sent me such a
confession of guilt as you have just done. You had better leave Opeki
at once or hide in the hills. I am afraid I have placed you in a
somewhat compromising position with the company, which is unfortunate,
especially as, if I am not mistaken, they owe you some back pay. You
should have been wiser in your day, and bought Y.C.C. stock when it
was down to five cents, as 'yours truly' did. You are not, Stedman, as
bright a boy as some. And as for your friend, the war correspondent,
he has queered himself for life. You see, my dear Stedman, after I had
sent off your first message, and demands for further details came
pouring in, and I could not get you at the wire to supply them, I took
the liberty of sending some on myself."
"Great Heavens!" gasped Gordon.
Stedman grew very white under his tan, and the perspiration rolled on
his cheeks.
"Your message was so general in its nature, that it allowed my
imagination full play, and I sent on what I thought would please the
papers, and, what was much more important to me, would advertise the
Y.C.C. stock. This I have been doing while waiting for material from
you. Not having a clear idea of the dimensions or population of Opeki,
it is possible that I have done you and your newspaper friend some
injustice. I killed off about a hundred American residents, two
hundred English, because I do not like the English, and a hundred
French. I blew up old Ollypybus and his palace with dynamite, and
shelled the city, destroying some hundred thousand dollars' worth of
property, and then I waited anxiously for your friend to substantiate
what I had said. This he has most unkindly failed to do. I am very
sorry, but much more so for him than for myself, for I, my dear
friend, have cabled on to a man in San Francisco, who is one of the
directors of the Y.C.C. to sell all my stock, which he has done at one
hundred and two, and he is keeping the money until I come. And I leave
Octavia this afternoon to reap my just reward. I am in about twenty
thousand dollars on your little war, and I feel grateful. So much so
that I will inform you that the ship of war _Kaiser_ has arrived
at San Francisco, for which port she sailed directly from Opeki. Her
captain has explained the real situation, and offered to make every
amend for the accidental indignity shown to our flag. He says he aimed
at the cannon, which was trained on his vessel, and which had first
fired on him. But you must know, my dear Stedman, that before his
arrival, war-vessels belonging to the several powers mentioned in my
revised despatches, had started for Opeki at full speed, to revenge
the butchery of the foreign residents. A word, my dear young friend,
to the wise is sufficient. I am indebted to you to the extent of
twenty thousand dollars, and in return I give you this kindly advice.
Leave Opeki. If there is no other way, swim. But leave Opeki."
The sun, that night, as it sank below the line where the clouds seemed
to touch the sea, merged them both into a blazing, blood-red curtain,
and colored the most wonderful spectacle that the natives of Opeki had
ever seen. Six great ships of war, stretching out over a league of
sea, stood blackly out against the red background, rolling and rising,
and leaping forward, flinging back smoke and burning sparks up into
the air behind them, and throbbing and panting like living creatures
in their race for revenge. From the south came a three-decked vessel,
a great island of floating steel, with a flag as red as the angry sky
behind it, snapping in the wind. To the south of it plunged two long
low-lying torpedo-boats, flying the French tri-color, and still
farther to the north towered three magnificent hulls of the White
Squadron. Vengeance was written on every curve and line, on each
straining engine-rod, and on each polished gun-muzzle.
And in front of these, a clumsy fishing-boat rose and fell on each
passing wave. Two sailors sat in the stern, holding the rope and
tiller, and in the bow, with their backs turned forever toward Opeki,
stood two young boys, their faces lit by the glow of the setting sun
and stirred by the sight of the great engines of war plunging past
them on their errand of vengeance.
"Stedman," said the elder boy, in an awe-struck whisper, and with a
wave of his hand, "we have not lived in vain."