JOHNNY THOMPSON IN JAIL
It may seem a trifle strange that anything could have separated these
good pals, Johnny and Pant. Fact is, only Pant’s discovery of a genuine
blood relative, his grandfather, could have brought about such
separation. Pant of course had become deeply engrossed in the work of
building up the fortune of his white-haired grandsire. In this task
Johnny had shown a lively interest until the concession with the
priceless map enclosed had arrived. From that time on, it had seemed,
nothing remained to be done save to round up a band of chicleros and get
back into the bush. There a camp would be built and long weeks spent in
gathering and boiling down the sap of the “chewing gum” trees. For this
task Johnny had no taste. He must have adventure.
So on that bright tropical morning, little dreaming that the safe would
be robbed that night and that adventure would be provided for all, he had
cut himself a stout stick for dealing with snakes, had strapped a machete
to his belt and had fared forth alone in search of adventure.
Had Johnny lived in Honduras twenty-five years, or even ten, he would
have waited for the train. It wouldn’t go up for two days. But always, to
the Central American, there is plenty of time.
But Johnny was new to the Tropics. He was in the habit of taking the best
transportation he could get. The best this time was a pair of short
sturdy legs which belonged to Johnny Thompson.
The road leads through a jungle. Here and there is a small group of
struggling, insignificant banana plantations, but the jungle has so far
succeeded in taking them back to itself that they, too, seem wild.
There is a certain joy to be had from a journey on foot through a
tropical jungle. There is a glimmer of green, a fresh damp odor of decay,
faint and pleasing as musk, and there always comes from the bushes and
trees a suggestion of low, joyous music, made, perhaps by bees and birds,
but nevertheless it is there, an indescribable music. Johnny had enjoyed
all this until he had begun to feel the need of food and refreshment.
Most of all, he wanted a drink. Any old drink would do. But there was no
drink. The dry season was nearing its close. Everywhere the floor of the
jungle was dry as the Sahara.
Had Johnny lived long in the jungle he would have stepped aside to break
the stem of a certain plant, then to catch in the hollow of his hand the
delicious water that came dripping out almost in a stream.
He hadn’t lived long in a jungle, so all he could do was to plod on.
When his desire for water had become intense longing, when his tongue
seemed to fill his mouth and his throat clicked when he swallowed, he had
found himself by a sudden turn to the right brought suddenly into the
midst of an orchard of fruit trees.
“Forbidden fruit” is the name the natives have given these great golden
balls. Johnny didn’t call them that. He had called them grapefruit. He
hadn’t eaten grapefruit many times because he had found them bitter.
“Bitter!” he had said, making a wry face. “Bitter, and me dying of
thirst!” At a distance they had looked like oranges.
“Oh well—” He had resigned himself to his fate. “Here goes!”
He had left the railway bed, then dropping on the moss beneath a heavily
laden tree, had seized upon a great golden ball and had begun tearing
away its covering.
Having quartered the fruit, he had made up a wry face and thrust a
generous wedge into his mouth.
Instantly the wry face had vanished. A glorious smile took its place.
“Not bad,” he said, filling his mouth again. “Not half bad. Just need to
get ripe, I suppose. Sugar would be an insult to such fruit as this.
People in the States don’t know what it is.”
He had spoken to himself, but some one else had heard, for from somewhere
above him there had come in a melodious voice:
“So you like forbidden fruit?”
“I—I beg your pardon!” Johnny was on his feet at once. “I—I didn’t mean
to steal. See here, I’ll buy a quarter’s worth.”
He had looked up at the girl whose golden hair, golden freckles and dark
green dress so completely blended with fruit and foliage that, until now,
he had not seen her.
“Have you a donkey?” There was a suggestion of a laugh in the girl’s
tone. “I don’t see any.”
“Why must I have a donkey?” Johnny looked his surprise.
“Because we sell them by the barrel. Fifty cents a barrel. Of course, for
a quarter you’d only get a half a barrel. But even so, how are you going
to carry them?” Shaking out her dress and laughing the girl had dropped
to the ground.
Out of his little adventure in the grapefruit orchard had grown a new
enterprise. Johnny suddenly decided to become a shipping agent. Madge
Kennedy, who had turned out to be a Scotch girl, had insisted upon his
accompanying her to the house to meet her grandfather, Donald Kennedy.
The grandfather, a great gray-bearded man with a store of knowledge that
could come only from long study and many years in the jungle, had proven
a find indeed. Johnny did not soon tire of sitting on the broad veranda
of the long one-story house, listening to the old man as he rambled on
about bananas and grapefruit, strange tropical foods, Carib Indians, and
the future of their little Central American Colony.
It had not taken Johnny long to discover, however, that these kindly
people were really almost paupers in the midst of their abundance. Many
carloads of the finest fruit in the world hung ripe on the trees. Why was
it not being shipped?
When he had pressed them for an answer to this puzzling question, Madge
Kennedy had told him that the fruit company had refused to accept their
fruit. The reason, she supposed, was that her grandfather had two years
before sold his crop to the owner of a tramp steamer. The great East Sea
Fruit Company, which had a monopoly on the fruit trade of Central
America, did not wish competition, and they took this method of punishing
her grandfather.
“But say!” Johnny leaped to his feet. “I’ll find you a ship. There’s one
anchored off Belize now. Jorgensen is the captain. He’s anxious enough
for a cargo. Came all this way for a cargo of mahogany. The half-caste
Indian woodcutters are on a strike. There is no mahogany to haul.”
“Oh!” Madge beamed upon him in sudden excitement.
“But then,” her smile vanished, “I know the ship. It’s no use. We have
only a third of a cargo for her.”
“Finish up with bananas,” Johnny suggested.
“Whose bananas? Every grower has a contract to sell only to the Fruit
Company.”
For a little time Johnny felt himself baffled, defeated. Then of a sudden
an inspiration came. Many times he had watched the loading of bananas off
the dock at Stann Creek.
“Six hands!” he exclaimed excitedly. “That’s it! Six hands! We’ll have a
cargo yet!”
That very night, after telling Madge of his grand plan, he started for
Guatemala City to see the man who owned the largest banana plantation in
Central America.
For some little time fortune smiled upon him in his new enterprise.
Arriving at Stann Creek in the dead of night he found a sailing boat
preparing to leave for Porte Barrios. At this port he caught a train for
Guatemala. High noon found him walking the streets of that ancient and
most beautiful city of Central America.
The city’s beauty was lost upon him. His thoughts were centered about one
man, Don del Valle, the richest banana grower in all that land. He at
once went about the task of finding the man and securing an interview.
Having discovered the dapper, black-eyed Guatemalan sitting in his garden
sipping wine, he wasted no time on ceremony but, boy-like, launched at
once into his project.
The astonished del Valle, who understood only a part of what was said and
who was accustomed to inflict long periods of waiting and numerous
delays, stared at him in astonishment for a time. Then he demanded:
“What is it that this mad boy wants?”
“Bananas! I want bananas!” Johnny exclaimed.
“Well then, go and buy them, as many as you like.” del Valle threw a
handful of coppers at his feet.
“But I want many. Two-thirds of a ship load, twenty thousand bunches.”
Johnny’s face took on an air of unusual seriousness.
“But I have no bananas to sell. They are contracted for, as you should
know, by your great American company.”
“But not the six hands.” Johnny exclaimed eagerly. “I only ask for six
hands.”
“Six hands!” the Guatemalan exclaimed in a fit of passion. “Six hands!
Here, take this crazy youth to jail. I will prefer a charge of annoying a
gentleman.”
The two native policemen, who were in reality the official guard of the
great gentleman, sprang into action. Ten minutes later Johnny found
himself inside looking out, and the window he looked through was heavily
barred. So it was that Johnny Thompson came to be in jail.