ON THE TRAIL OF THE PEARLS
The Captain of the _Torentia_, the ship on which Pant had secured passage
in so strange a manner, was a wary old seadog. On first indication of
storm he had put in behind one of those small islands that dot the
seaboard, and had there lain in safety until the storm had passed. This
does not mean, however, that there were no interesting occurrences on
board that ship to be recorded. As yet Pant had no certain knowledge
regarding that thread marked gunnysack and its rich contents of pearls.
Until he had made a try for that he could not rest.
To get a look at the chicle stored there in the forward hold was not so
simple a task as Pant had at first supposed it to be. To begin with, it
was a long way down to it from the deck where the few passengers were
allowed to promenade. No companionway or ladder led to it. When it was
necessary to take the temperature of the space where the bananas were
stored the simple expedient of lowering a thermometer by a string was
resorted to.
“Have to go down there some way, I suppose,” he told himself. “Hand over
hand perhaps. Trouble is, I have no rope, and besides there is always
some one hanging about.”
It was a strange situation. He wanted very much to go down there and
inspect the chicle, yet he had no legal right to do so.
“It’s not as if I meant to do anything that’s wrong,” he told himself.
“If I told them what I wanted, there’s not a man on board but would help
me, help me a lot too much. That’s the trouble. I dare not trust them.”
On the second day out, he discovered a loose rope coiled up close by the
hatch. But all that day seamen were working or lolling about close to the
hatch.
“Try it at night,” he told himself. “Use a flashlight.”
He did “try it at night.” He met with little success. Scarcely had he
lowered himself to the bottom and thrown on his electric torch, than the
night watch threw a more powerful light upon him, then shouted down:
“What you doin’? Come up out of there!”
There was but one thing to be done—to come.
The boy found his knees shaking as he climbed the rope. He had a
wholesome fear of ship’s discipline. On the high seas a captain is a
king. What would be done with him now?
To his great surprise, nothing was done. The night watch took the affair
as a boyish prank, and after a short lecture, let him go. That, however,
ended his attempts to examine the chicle at sea.
“Have to wait until the stuff is in the warehouse,” he told himself. “It
will take some quick moves after that. I’ll have to see some one high up
in the Central Chicle office and get permission to make the search.
Shouldn’t wonder if I’ll have to tell some one the whole story. Might be
safe enough. Suppose it would.”
After these settled conclusions he gave himself over to enjoyment of
wonders of the ship and the changing mysteries of the sea.
So, freed from the grip of the storm, the two steamers smoked away toward
a common port, New York. On board each was a somewhat worried boy,
worried but eager; worried about the outcome of their adventure, eager
for its end. The _Torentia_, being a faster boat, docked first.
Fortune was with Pant for once. Scarcely had the ship docked when he went
springing down the gangplank. The doctor had looked at his tongue, the
immigration official glanced over his papers, then set him free.
To find the offices of the Central Chicle Company he discovered was
something of a task. Once there he found himself confronted by a long
room full of clicking typewriters and a smiling but determined girl at
the telephone switchboard.
“Mr. Daniels,” he was informed, “is in conference. Will you wait? Have
you an appointment?”
He, of course, had none.
“’Fraid you won’t be able to see him to-day.” The telephone girl threw
back her bobbed hair. “He goes out for golf at four.”
“Golf!” exclaimed Pant. “Tell him I must see him.”
“I’ll tell him. But I’m afraid it’s no use.”
Mopping the perspiration from his brow, the boy sat down. A half hour
passed; three-quarters. A buzzer sounded on the telephone girl’s desk.
She hurried back to a mahogany walled office at the back of the room. A
moment later she reappeared, carried a sheaf of papers to a typist, then
returned to her post. Not once did she glance at Pant.
“Forgotten me,” was his mental comment. “That’s the President’s office
she went into. In the jungle we don’t wait for things. We go after them.
I’m off!”
With a quick elastic step, he cleared the low gate, and before a score of
pairs of startled eyes, marched straight for the mahogany walled office.
“What’s this?” a large, red cheeked man sprang to his feet as he entered.
Two others at a table looked up enquiringly. “Who sent you?”
“No one sent me. I came.”
“What for?” The man’s face showed nothing. Pant felt uncomfortable.
“Chic—why, I—my grandfather shipped some chicle.”
“Chicle. Go to the adjusting bureau. Can’t you see I’m in conference?”
The man’s voice rose.
“But—you don’t understand. You—I—” Pant was becoming more and more
confused.
“Understand? Of course I understand. You want an adjustment on chicle.
Can’t you go where I tell you to?”
The boy was about to give up hope when a familiar voice from behind spoke
his name.
“Why Pant, old chap! How did you get up here?” the voice said.
Turning, he found himself staring into the eyes of Kirk, his boy pal of
that first adventure in the Maya cave.
“Is this some young friend of yours?” The man at the desk asked, turning
to Kirk. His tone had suddenly grown warm and friendly.
“Why yes, Uncle, a very good friend from Central America. We had some
adventures together. Remember the Maya cave? This is Pant.”
“Ah, Pant. Glad to meet you.” The man put out a hand. “Tell you what,
Pant, I’ll turn you over to my nephew. He’ll help you out. If there is
anything he can’t do, and I can, come around.”
“Thanks, I—oh!” Pant choked up, flushed, then backed awkwardly out of the
office. His mind was in a whirl. So that was it, his companion at the
home of the old Don was a favored nephew of the main stockholder in the
Central Chicle Company.
“And I told him once I thought the Company unscrupulous in its dealings
with smaller holders,” he thought to himself. “I may have been wrong. I
only hope he has forgotten.”
Kirk had forgotten or forgiven, for he treated the boy from Central
America like a long lost brother. Hurrying him out of the noisy office,
he led the way to a quiet little eating place. There, after ordering a
savory lunch, he invited Pant to unburden his soul.
“Time to tell the whole story,” Pant thought to himself.
“Kirk,” he said suddenly, leaning far over the table, “you remember the
story of the first Don’s silver box of pearls?”
“Yes.”
“I found it.”
“You didn’t!” The other boy stared, unbelieving.
“I did. Pearls and all.”
“Wha—where it is?” stammered Kirk.
“In a chicle sack somewhere in the storeroom of your uncle’s company.”
“It is? How did it come there?”
The meal was eaten in haste while Pant told his story.
Leaving the dessert for some future time, the rich boy seized Pant by the
arm and dragged him out of the place.
“Come on!” he exclaimed. “We haven’t a moment to lose. Chicle is scarce.
Your shipment will be sent at once to the factory. There it will be
unsacked and broken up. Here! Jump in!” He dragged his friend into a
taxi.
“To the Trans-Atlantic Dock,” he commanded the driver.